


If You Share a Human's Soporifics...

by artisticMage (Shinju_Tori)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dualscar is why we can't have nice things, Hermaphroditic Trolls, Human/Troll Relationship, M/M, Swearing, Troll Biology, Troll Culture, ancestors don't have happy backstories, there are bits of this that are sad, troll slurs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:29:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 30,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinju_Tori/pseuds/artisticMage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your title is Grand Highblood and you have been endlessly cycling through your memories in your castle for a while now. So when you see the tiny pink wriggler-like creature you try intimidating him. And when he invites you to come over to his hive of course you motherfucking go.</p><p>Welcome to the afterlife where nothing makes sense and the points don’t matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If You Share a Human's Soporifics...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bettername](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bettername/gifts).
  * Inspired by [If You Give a Subjugglator a Shot of Tequila…](https://archiveofourown.org/works/500141) by [Bettername](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bettername/pseuds/Bettername). 



> Hello, I'm Shinju. And you're watching Jack Ass.
> 
> ALLONSY~! :D

You were bored. All that kept happening was repeats of various memories; battles long since gone that you relived ceaselessly, countless tussles with your Kismesis, and an endless supply of Faygo and sopor for you to consume. Who knew that one could get bored of the most wicked of elixirs and sopor? You sit in your throne, vaguely wondering what that jolt that had woken you up was, when you hear footsteps. You listen carefully to the noise and determine that it’s someone smaller than you- then again what creature isn’t smaller than you- but at least as fast. Is it that memory of Dualscar when you culled him again? You could use some more violet on your walls. The being comes into view and in the flickering torchlight you can see that he neither Dualscar, nor anyone else that you know from Alternia.

You tilt your head to the side observing the strange creature that has it's back to you and hasn’t noticed you yet. It appears to be male and is solidly built with long lean looking muscles. It has no horns as far as you can tell which are both a disappointment and a relief. It’s a little less than half your height with skin that is a pale pinkish color and what you can see of its hair under its odd hat is a pale sun-bleached yellow. It’s dressed in a white shirt with a collar that points upwards, black leather fingerless gloves, black slacks, and odd white and black shoes. The only splashes of color on it that you can see are its bright orange hat and the matching belt around its waist. Maybe that shade of orange is its blood color?

The creature stiffens and turns to stare at you, only now sensing your presence, its lips twitching for the briefest of moments. You can’t see the creature’s eyes because it’s wearing the most ridiculous pointed pair of shades that you have ever seen, and you have seen some odd looking shades over the course of a thousand sweeps, including ~~Horuss’~~ Darkleer’s. You yawn at it, partially because it’s boring just watching and not doing anything, partially because you want this creature to understand that you can easily take it on and survive. It stays silent, its one hand moving slightly as if it was preparing to pull out a weapon of some sort from its Sylladex when you run your claws through your hair before turning towards the bone pile next to your throne, pulling out your cup and filling it up with sopor. You take a sip, noting how the creature relaxes minutely at your lack of action.

Finally you decide to break the silence. “MOTHERFUCKER, I’m not HALLUCINATING THIS TIME.” You take another sip, quietly watching its reactions to your movements as well as your words, before adding. “I wouldn’t create some PATHETIC WRETCHED creature. You look like a pink soft two legged wiggler. You would SQUISH WELL BENEATH MY FEET.” You lean forward, raising an eyebrow at the intruder. “You haven’t FLED IN TERROR, nor are you TREMBLING IN FEAR. Has your think pan BEEN DAMAGED in such a way that you are unable to REGISTER THAT MOTHERFUCKING EMOTION?”

The creature shortly shakes its head no. Your voice wavers, sweeping high, low and back, on the first word, before you switch back to your forced alternating loud and soft speech as you reply, “ReAlLy? Well that is MOTHERFUCKING REFRESHING. One thousand sweeps. I’ve been around for ONE MOTHERFUCKING THOUSAND sweeps. And that entire time it was NOTHING BUT A STREAM OF TERRIFIED LITTLE SHITS. All of them pleading or begging FOR ONE MOTHERFUCKING THING OR ANOTHER. Don’t cull me Grand Highblood. SPARE MY PLANET GRAND HIGHBLOOD. Please don’t ENSLAVE MY RACE Grand Highblood. Whatever you do DON’T TURN my home world into a MOTHERFUCKING MOLTEN BALL OF SLAG Grand Highblood. One MOTHERFUCKING thing or another. But I digress.”

You narrow your eyes at the creature, an irritating thought suddenly occurring to you. “I only know of one motherfucking instance when the fuckers wouldn’t cower in fear.” You go silent for a moment glaring down at the alien before you, and growl suspiciously, “You don’t happen to have any paperwork for me to fill out do you?” You watch as the being almost raises an eyebrow in response to your demand, “ANSWER ME MEATSACK. Do you want me to FILL SOME MOTHERFUCKING FORMS OUT? Because I’m FED UP WITH THIS HOOFBEAST SHIT.”

The aforementioned meatsack shakes his head no. “Does the EMPRESS WISH TO CONVERSE with me?” He shakes his head no again. “Good because I’m not MOTHERFUCKING HIGH ENOUGH to deal with that nook.” You pause, looking up towards the ceiling of your castle, to take another sip of sopor, trying to collect your thoughts together. “I’m almost motherfucking CERTAIN I’m DEAD anyways. But leave it up to her to find a way to TORMENT ME IN THE AFTERLIFE.” You muse as you glance back down at the creature. “Are you MOTHERFUCKING DECEASED?” He nods at you. “Don’t say much do you meatsack?” He shakes his head negatively. You sigh, and lean back in your throne, before demanding, “What are you PINK FLESHY CREATURE?”

His voice is firm, crisp in its delivery, like an officer in the army, “A human.”

“Human.” You pause and search your memory for any mention of an alien race called ‘Humans’. All mental checks come back with a big purple sticker of your clown frown-y face with the word ‘NoPe!’ underneath it. “I don’t remember conquering your MOTHERFUCKING PLANET AND ENSLAVING YOUR RACE.” You eventually say, as casually as you can.

The human gives you an almost shrug and replies, “You haven’t.” You file that away and ask, “What do others of your species call you?”  His answer is short and fitting for his lean, long legged, build, “Strider.” You grin and announce, “I am the GRAND HIGHBLOOD. MOTHERFUCKING LEADER of the Subjuggulators. GENERAL of the Imperial Troll army.” Strider does that almost-an-eyebrow-raise again, as he says, “So you’re a troll.” You give him an almost-nod in return, “My species refers to ourselves as such.” Strider drawls, making a vague gesture towards you “And you’re called Grand Highblood.” You snort, “It’s more of a title.” He asks, “So what do you want me to call you?” You want to tell him to call you GH like all the other Subjuggulators were allowed to or Highblood like the lowbloods were supposed to, but something else slips out instead, your hatchname, “Makara.”

An awkward silence begins to rear its head so you break it with a question of your own. “So … Strider human. What MOTHERFUCKING PURPOSE do you have to ENTER MY LAIR?” He gives you the tiniest of shrugs, “I was hoping to slay some time.” You are on edge as you inquire, “What activity do you suggest to SLAY THIS MOTHERFUCKING TIME with?” He deadpans his response, “Strife.”

You chuckle as a thrill jolts through you pleasantly. It’s a motherfucking miracle. “It is your desire to engage in MORTAL COMBAT?” You look him over with a disbelieving smile. “Strife with you would not seem a MOTHERFUCKING CHALLENGE worth undertaking.” He graces you with a smirk. “I can make it challenging. All you have to do is follow me back to my apartment.” It’s his turn to look you over, tilting his head slightly in thought like a feather-beast. “However you might not fit.” You ponder only for a moment.

“That situation can be MOTHERFUCKING REMEDIED.” With a thought you shrink down to half your size, roughly an inch or two taller than Strider and hop off of your throne, still holding your cup and not spilling a single drop. You flash him a grin and gesture with the cup. “Lead the way to your hive STRIDER.”

It took a few seconds, minutes, hours, maybe even days, motherfucking time was difficult to measure in bubbles before you and Strider reach the beige box of a hivestem that he called his ‘apartment’. During the trek through the desert that you remembered, but had a strange alien sun in the sky that miraculously didn’t burn you, you entertain/try to impress/intimidate him with tales of your planetary conquests, intergalactic wars, and battles that raged for literally centuries. You mention that culling and painting are your two favorite pass times. He seemed surprised that you liked to paint, until you informed him that you used blood of cullees for your pigments. You freeze soon after entering into the room staring down at the floor in mixed shock and awe.

“Grub bristles. Your lair is coated in millions of motherfucking grub bristles” You mutter while kneading your bare toes into the floor which had a strange fuzzy covering to it like the skin of a grub. You can hear Strider try to stifle a giggle as you gingerly pick your feet up, one at a time, slowly getting used to to the strange new sensation. “Do you TAKE JOY IN SLAUGHTERING the young of your species? Is this covering on your floor a MOTHERFUCKING TROPHY from your exploits?” You demand as Strider bursts into loud laughter, almost doubling over at the waist. He wipes a tear off with a gloved hand and looks back up to your deadpan expression. “You take joy in massacre. You are ONE SICK MOTHERFUCKER.” A toothy grin stretches across your face. “I LIKE IT.”

“Makara.” He glances over the top of his shades, allowing you to catch a glimpse of eyes as white as your own are now. “Are you prepared for mortal combat?” You straighten up from your uncomfortable slouch and reply, “I am prepared to ENGAGE IN BATTLE human.” Somehow he seems to flicker out of sight and then back within seconds and hands you a small black device solemnly saying, “These will be our weapons.”

You recognize the device as part of a game grub system. You grin at Strider. Motherfucking miracles.

“Your Morail will WEEP RIVERS OF BLOOD; your Matesprit will gnash their teeth as I CRUSH YOUR BRITTLE BONES underneath my feet.” You cackle as you rip the head of Strider’s character off for the fourth time. You giggle wildly as you watch the pixilated blood drip from the severed spine of Strider’s character. This is much better than the game grubs on Alternia! Though you find it strange, and somewhat saddening that all the characters in this game have the same red mutant blood that HE had…

Strider huffs quietly, distracting you from your dismal thoughts, before asking, “Wanna swap characters?”

“It will only vary my ways of ANNIHILATING YOU” You chuckle right back at him. He puts the game on pause and wanders into his nutritional block and over to his strange thermal hull, calling as he goes, “Want anything?” You ask, flicking through the other characters debating which one would be the best for you, trying to ignore the plush things he has strewn about the room, “Got any wicked elixir?”

His voice is laced with confusion, as you give into temptation and start gathering together the plush creatures, “Wicked elixir?” You simply reply, concentrating on crafting the perfect pile out of them, “Faygo.” His answer is brief and confusing, “No.” You pause in the middle of making a spot for your glutes to sit on and frown in the general direction of the nutritional block

“This is your memory; you can WILL IT INTO EXISTENCE.” Your statement seems to jar Strider because when he speaks his voice is disbelieving, “You can make stuff appear? I think about it and poof it’s there?” You settle down into the pile, wryly saying, “You were not AWARE OF THAT? This memory is your domain. You have UNLIMITED CONTROL. In its confines you are MOTHERFUCKING OMNIPOTENT.” You hear the door to his thermal hull open twice and close three times before he saunters back into the relaxation block, a bottle in either hand, and pauses briefly seeing you in the pile. You jolt upright as he walks over to the couch. “Trolls gravitate to piles. It’s instinctual” you blurt out in a rush, not wanting to be seen as weak, especially to this meatsack. He slowly nods at you as he hands you the Faygo, a 2 Liter bottle of Orange Faygo to be exact.

“I’m not going to judge you” he reassures you, as if you were Morails which makes you feel odd because now you do feel oddly calmer and slightly confused, as he returns to his spot on the couch. You settle back down into the assortment of plushy creatures. Motherfucking miracle plush animals and your wicked elixir make this experience miraculous in so many ways. You hear Strider sigh as he fondly examines the bottle in his hand. You look at him, puzzled by his behavior.

“It’s my wicked elixir” he replies to your unasked question about why he was staring at the bottle so lovingly. “What is the name of this HUMAN ELIXIR?” You ask intrigued about the clear fluid within the bottle.

“We call it” Strider pauses for dramatic effect “tequila.”

You carefully sound out the word, “Te-kiiiillll-yaaahh. The clear substance HAS KILL in the name. It must be MOTHERFUCKING GLORIOUS.”

“It is.” He unscrews the cap and takes a sizable swig before holding it out to you. You take the bottle from him, give it a sniff, blinking at the sharpness of the aroma coming from the bottle before taking a swig of his own. You chuckles and hand the bottle back, impressed because compared to sopor it tastes pretty miraculous.

“Glorious INDEED.” Over the course of the next several hours you learn two things. Number one, the ‘tequila’ that Strider materialized is the best motherfucking miracle of your afterlife yet. Number two, apparently the ‘tequila’ soporific can intoxicate a motherfucker just as much as plain sopor can. One intriguing question that remained unanswered was just how much tequila it took to get you both this drunk since Strider’s bottle of his miracle elixir kept refilling itself when the clear liquid neared the bottom, which was a motherfucking miracle. Either way you knew you were intoxicated, Strider was at least as intoxicated as you, and that was a motherfucking glorious thing indeed.

As you passed the bottle back and forth you noticed Strider loosening up, grinning at you and joking with you more. Your bloodpusher throbbed the more you watched him, listened to him, filling you with pity and something else, not anthing pitch but maybe…red? When you couldn’t stand it any longer you crawled out of the pile and settled down on the floor between his long lean legs.

You don’t bother to control your waver anymore as you drawl, “STrIBro.” He tries to deadpan at you, but he can’t stop the faintest of smiles from curling the edges of his lips, “Yeah?” You hesitate before blurting out, “I dOn’T kNow HoW lOng wE aRe GoiNg to bE toGetHer sO I HavE to teLl yOu tHiS nOw.” You fidget, staring at the floor and his strange shoes before tilting your head to stare into his red flushed face. Your own white eyes hopefully are looking straight into his. “YoU’Re a mOthErFucKin MiRacLe bRo. tHiS is aS cLoSe As I’vE eVeR BeEn tO sOmeOnE tHat I wAsN’T uSiNg tHeiR BloOd tO pAinT tHe mOtHeRfUckiNg wAlLs wItH.” You can feel your cheeks heating up as he stares at you.

“Are you blushing?” You can practically feel your cheeks turn a deeper shade of bluish purple as he says smugly, “You are blushing.” You suddenly start to find the floor to be extraordinarily fascinating what with how only the flooring in the halls and here are covered in what he called ‘carpeting’. Strider presses at you asking, “So what was that? A pickup line?” Your eyes flicker up to him briefly before returning to the floor. “WeLl…” You squirm a bit as you think, not quite sure of whether or not you want to go any farther with him.

You make a decision then scoot closer, lean up to him, and flick your tongue over his bottom lip. You sit back down on the floor, making your eyes as wide and pathetic as you can make them, while staring at him. “sLopPy mAkEouts?” You ask him, continuing to plead with your eyes.

Strider slides a gloved hand underneath your jaw, and buries his fingers into your, frankly miraculously thick, mass of hair and pull your face up to meet his in reply. He plants a kiss on your lips and drags his tongue across your bottom lip before pulling away. He smirks and agrees, “Sloppy makeouts.”

You watch stunned as he wipes off the paint that was smeared over his mouth. You touch your bottom lip and then pull your fingers away to stare at them for a few moments, deep in thought. On the one hand you really wanna pail this motherfucker so hard, but you can’t bring yourself to hate him and Subjuggulators don’t do red quadrants and he’s an alien… You shift your gaze back up to Strider’s face and the remnants of paint, your paint, smeared on his chin. …What the hell, you’re dead anyway! You then proceed to do a full body wiggle that you would never dare let anyone else see and live to tell the tale, except maybe Nitram.

You then proceed to pounce him as if you were a meowbeast and he was an unsuspecting squeakbeast. Everything seems to blur and when your eyes flicker back into focus, you find yourself lying on top of Strider who is spread across the couch, his hat lost somewhere on the floor along with his shades. Carefully you let one of your hands sliding up his shirt, the other hand carefully tangling in his hair, and you kiss him deeply, your longer tongue wrapped around his smaller one easily.

Your leg brushes up against his groin and you get a soft sound of contentment in reply as his eyes slowly slide close. He shivers as your thumb flicks over one of a pair of nubs on his chest. It stiffens and he stiffens along with it at the coolness of your skin. His eyes flutter open as your linguistic muscle exits his mouth. You straddle his hips staring down at the bumps hidden by his shirt. You give a low growl which is hastily followed by hooking your clawed fingers around the collar of his shirt and shredding it with ease. You let out a happy chirp after destroying his shirt, and return to rubbing the now hardened sensitive nubs underneath your calloused thumbs.

You stop teasing him momentarily and scoot further down on the couch. You lean in and let your lips hover right above his chest. You smirk before letting your long dark blue-purple-ish tongue languidly circle the outer edge of his nubs before allowing your lips to gently lower around the middle of it. He gasps and arches his back, pressing his chest into your face as you start to suck, gently. You reward him for his reaction by sucking harder and placing your arms around him, your claws lightly skimming over his strange pale exposed skin. You give the delectable fleshy nub one last flick with the tip of your tongue before venturing off to taste the rest of Strider’s strangely speckled flesh.

He’s turned into a squirming, panting mess by the time your lips reach his prominent hip bones. He brushes his fingertips along the ridges on your horns as you carefully trace the outline of a hip bone with your tongue. You chirp in pleasure as he switches from skimming over your horn to slowly stroking it from tip to about midway down your horn. You look up at him, slightly annoyed, as his hand eases to a stop.“StRibRo.”  You give him barkbeast eyes again. “cAn yoU sTroKe mY hOrnS aGaiN?” He runs his fingers from the tip of your horn down to the sensitive base. You close your eyes and start to make a rumbling purr as he strokes it.

Strider surprises you by sticking out his tongue and taking a tentative lick at your horn. You make another pleased chirp, and inch closer to him. He smirks before lovingly giving your horn a tongue bath. For the next few minutes, it’s your turn to turn into a mush puddle. You look up to him, panting and probably flushed up to your ears, in more than one way.

“mInE” You growl as you pull off the remaining tatters of Strider’s shirt and fling them off into the far corners of the room. You sit up and catch sight of his slightly approving nod as you survey his exposed chest. You then, yank off your own shirt, not caring as it rips on the sharp tips of your horn and toss it to the side as well. He can’t help but gawk at the sight of you straddling your hips. You bet he thinks you look like a motherfucking miracle.

“IF tHiS iS yOuR reAcTiOn foR mE tAkIng My mOtHerFuCkiNg shIrT OfF, wHaT aRe yOu GoIng tO Do wHeN yOu seE wHat thE fUcK iS In mY pAnTs?” You teasingly hook a thumb in your waistband and give it a snap. “WeLl cOmE oN mOthErfUckEr.” You lazily grin as his focus shifts from your abs to your black and purple diamond patterned pajama pants. His fingers grip the waistband of your pants and pull them down.

“He’s part purple octopus” you hear Strider whisper as he stares at your bulge. It takes you unzipping his pants, after undoing his belt, to break him out whatever trance he was and now it’s your turn to be amazed at the peculiarities of alien junk. You stare at his strange blunt bulge. It’s very skinny compared to yours, roughly half the motherfucking size of yours. It doesn’t move other than an occasional twitch and seems to be leaking a clear-ish fluid from its odd rounded tip. He clears his throat giving you a meaningful look. You still keep staring at his junk, opening your mouth to say something, but quickly closing it after a moment of reconsidering what you were gonna say.

Strider smirks up at you, smug for some reason. “hUh.” Is all you can think of to say. “What?” He demands, smirk fading, as you take in the fact that his bulge doesn’t retract like yours does. “HuH.” You repeat even louder than before. “What does huh mean?” Strider’s voice has a strange tone to it, but you can’t tear your eyes away from his junk. You point to his bulge and ask, “Is iT sUppOsEd tO mOthErfUcKinG loOk lIkE tHaT? iTs nOt mOviNg. oOoo nOw iTs sHrInKiNg.” He looks vaguely annoyed at that remark, but it really does look like it is shrinking.

“iS It sUpPosEd tO gEt sMaLlEr?” Strider looks ready to flip this pailing session so that it’s black as pitch when your bulge apparently gets motherfucking tired of waiting and slithers around his strange bulge and gives it a squeeze. Your bulge and his are actively ignoring the both of you and start to become the best of invertebrothers. His stiffens as your bulge curls further around its length. You both moan as your slick appendage begins to ripple up and down his shaft in a stroking motion.

You can see Strider’s eyes flicker up to you. Just for him, you lazily skim your tongue over your lips. You shut your eyes as you make a low rumbling sound and rock towards him. His hips reply with a thrust of their own. You shift positions until you are parallel with him, propping yourself up on knees and elbows, pressing his skin against yours ever so slightly. You cup his shoulders with your palms, surrounding him in your arms. You rest your head on the armrest next to his. His pinkish, speckled skin burns like a furnace, feeding the heat flaring inside of you as your bulge continues to move up and down his. You listen to him breathe, his pants, his gasps; his murmured words as his finger roams along your sides.

He reaches out and brushes his finger tips against your horn, skimming along the tip, trailing over the spiraling ridges down to the base. Your breath hitches as his fingers work along the sensitive new growth, and you squeeze your fingers into his shoulders, hard enough to bruise, as his thumb rubs the junction where your horn meets your skull. You nuzzle against the crook of his neck, and Strider allowed you access.

Your tongue laps at his exposed pale speckled flesh. He moans and squirms underneath you, spurning you on, making your thrusts more urgent. You nibble down his neck starting from just below his ear, stopping every now and then long enough to leave a bright purple-red mark, carefully working down to the collarbone, which you proceeded to bite down around. He cries out and rakes his flimsy nails down your back- huh he’s still wearing his gloves- as he comes. You hiss in response and your bulge spasms as you empty your genetic material all over his stomach. The thick purplish blue liquid, with small streaks of his own strange white genetic material, puddles delightfully on his stomach, visibly marking him as yours.

You grab a scrap of Strider’s shirt off of the floor and wipe your genetic material off before tossing the soaked cloth back onto the floor. You yawn, wiggling up against him. You position yourself between him and the couch. Your arms surround him and in your sleepy state, you pull him close. The both of you drift off to sleep guided by your soft purring.


	2. …You’ll Both Have Hangovers the Next Morning

Any source of bright light, no matter whether it’s a sun that burns you to a crisp or a torch that just makes you wish you hadn’t been born with eyes, is always a pain in the ass to nocturnal creatures like you. You growl at the sun coming in through the window. Wait a motherfucking minute. You have blackout curtains, reinforced so that no sun can reach you. How can that be? You distantly note that your pants are at least down to your knees now, your bulge feels faintly sticky, and there is something so very, very warm in your arms. Did you have one of those rare moments where you flipped red for Nitram? You don’t feel any pain from bruises so maybe that’s right. Gingerly you crack open an eye, hissing at the sunlight glinting off of pale gold hair in front of you.

Pale gold…Why was that so important to you…

Oh.

OH.

Now you remember: the Strider human had entered your castle –without any apparent fear of you-, lead you back to his hivestem, challenged you to a strife via game grubs- he called them videogames instead-, got both of you intoxicated with his miracle elixir called ‘Tequila’, and then you two had pailed on his couch. Well, had some motherfucking bitchtits bulge on bulge action at the very least.

You sigh as you get up, careful not to wake Strider, pull your pants back up around your waist, and wander into his nutritional block. You rummage through his shelves until you come across two mugs that you deem thick enough to contain your ultimate hangover cure. You grunt your approval and imagine said cure in one of the two mugs, and carefully sip from it. Your face scrunches up in distaste. It doesn’t taste like you remember it tasting like. You frown, thinking of the ingredients and tools that you need to use, in order to to make it instead.

After they appear, you get to slicing, mashing, and mixing until you have your thick slowly bubbling hangover cure. You retry it and grunt in approval. That shit really does wake a motherfucker up. You hear a faint groan from the next room. Speaking of motherfuckers waking up, you pour another mug full of your cure and head into the relaxation block where Strider is only just waking up. You walk over to him, watching as he flails his one arm about, searching for something though he only succeeds in hitting himself in the face and groaning. He makes as though to roll onto his stomach and obviously thinks better of it from the whimper that comes out of his mouth.

He shifts onto his side and squints down at his groin area where his pants are still undone and liberally coated with a layer of your genetic material. You hold the mug of your hangover cure in his face. He stares at it dumbly for a few seconds before he takes the steaming cup from you. He hesitantly sniffs at the mug, his nose wrinkling in disgust. You growl, irritated that he won’t just drink it already. You glare down at him as he glances up at you. You take a sip from your own mug, glowering at the cup in his hands. Unable to resist the urge, you yawn widely, and blink blearily at Strider as realization dawns on his face. Stupid fleshy meatsack probably would look better as a smear on your walls.

You growl at him as he seems to get lost in thought. Strider just raises his eyebrows at you. You point a claw at the mug in his hand and give a demanding click. He glances back down at the cup and makes his own clicking noise. You huff at him irritated. He huffs right back at you. You squint at him, so done with his hoofbeast shit. He returns the squint, full force.

You growl “Drink it.”

He replies “No.”

“Drink it.”

“No.”

“Imbibe the liquid.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“Driiiiinnnnnkkk iiittt.”

“Noooope.”

“Meat sack.”

“Yes Attila the Troll.”

You are irritated partially because it’s too fucking early for this, partially because he’s being a shit, and partially because you don’t get the reference he just made regarding you, “Why are you being such a motherfucking shit? Just drink it.”

He counters with ease, “I’m not drinking this vile concoction, just because you thrust it at me.”

“Stribro just drink it.”

“No dude, not gonna happen.”

“Bro.”

“Dude.”

“Brooo.”

“Duuude.”

“Bro.”

“No.”

“Mother fuck just drink it. Settle your thinkpan and fix that shit. It’s too motherfucking bright, and I am too motherfucking sober to be dealing with this hoofbeast shit.” He blinks at you a few times before looking back down at the now cold sludge his cup.

“It’ll help my hangover?”

“It will calm your horns.”

“I don’t have horns.”

You roll your eyes at him, and snap, “Then it will calm your fleshy chest nubs since they seem to have a similar sensitivity.”

“It will calm my tits?”

“If that’s what you call them then yes. It will calm your tits.”

He snorts as if he’s choking. You carefully take a step back, eyes going wide at the thought of him throwing up all over you. “No, no, I’m not going to blow chunks.” He snickers. “You said it would calm my tits.”

You go from alarmed back to agitated in seconds. “You diurnal bulge humper this is your motherfucking bubble, do something about your infernal glowing ball of pain in my horns.” He seems to realize something and cautiously says, “Makara.”

“What meat sack?”

“You made this rancid sludge right?” You nod. “How?”

“I thought of the drink first, but it didn’t motherfucking taste right so then I thought of the ingredients and then” You freeze and stare down at your own cup. You make an exasperated clicking noise and promptly facepalm only now just realizing that…

“I changed your motherfucking bubble. We didn’t have to have this motherfucking conversation. I could have just wished for it to be motherfucking dark outside my fucking self.” You continue to grumble to yourself about certain things not being miraculous at all and shit like that as you turn towards the window and glare at it. The harsh eye searing sunshine hastily gives way to the beautiful darkness of a Messiah blessed night. You murmur “’Bout motherfucking time” and shuffle over to where Strider is still sprawled out on the futon. You take the vessel of your hangover cure out of his hands and set it, along with your own, on the pile of wood boards and stone blocks that tries to be a table in this room.

You start pestering him in the darkness, “Stribro.”

“Hmmph?”

“Stribrooo.”

“What?”

You nudge his legs, “Move over.”

Now it’s his turn to squint, annoyed with you. “You probably can’t see this, but I’m glaring at you.” You snap right back, “I can see in the dark, I’m nocturnal you fragile pink fleshy fuck.” He is silent for a minute or two. “Stribro.” You plead. He eventually sighs and scoots closer to the edge of the futon. You take the hint and climb on behind him. You carefully wrap your arms around him, noting how he seems tense at first but slowly relaxes into your hold. You tell yourself that this cuddling thing that you are engaging in here is only because he makes a better warming device than Nitram. Yep, that’s why you’re cuddling, nothing red about it at all.


	3. Not What You Had Wanted to Wake Up To

You growl in your sleep as something hits your face in an unfamiliar papping motion. Along with it comes a faint shooshing noise and that is just as irritating as the papping. That does it, you allow one white eye to snap open while whoever is shooshpapping you stops mid-shoosh and follow it quickly by the other. Your blank eyes just stare at the tiny gloved hand resting on your cheekbone- smearing your paint- and slowly follow the arm connected to the offending hand all the way back to the meatsack. You and Strider look at each other for several agonizingly long seconds.

You flatly start, “Human. Strider, were you,” Your eyebrows furrow as you contemplate the sheer idiocy of what you were going to ask him, “ATTEMPTING TO SHOOSHPAP ME?”

He is silent for only a second before shortly saying, “Yep.”

You reflect for a moment on how daring Strider is, before drawling, “Your shame globes must be massive and made of an alloy more resilient than the armor on the Condescension’s battleship.” You pause and ask softly, “You have no MOTHERFUCKING FEAR OF ME do you?”

He shrugs at you, “I’m already dead.”

You smile broadly in reply and darkly tell him, “There are always worse fates than death.” He returns your smile with a smirk. “Before we get into a metaphorical dick measuring contest you need to release the little lady.” Your attention snaps to a female young troll, probably no more than 7 sweeps, entrapped in your hand. She goes rigid as you examine her from the tip of her red hood down to her dainty black shoed feet. What really manages to catch your eye about her though, are the delicate membranes on her back, shuddering with every minute twitch of her body.

“She has wings. Motherfucking miracles” You breathe reaching up to gingerly touch one delicate shimmering wing with your free hand. Last time you touched a motherfucking wing was the last time you saw Nitram before he had been caught and executed. Strider ruins the miraculous moment, “Makara.” You absentmindedly acknowledge him, “Hmmm?” Strider’s next words shock you into almost letting the little wriggler “Makara you want to see a real miracle? She has pupils. She’s alive.” You peer into the wriggler’s eyes. Sure as the Mirthful Messiahs, she has irises that are mostly a dark red at this point though you can still see streaks of grey here and there.

“A rust-blood.” You chuckle as you sit up, pulling her closer to your face, “Wiggler you are MOTHERFUCKING FAR FROM HOME.” Strider sharply says, “Makara don’t do anything fucking stupid. I have questions I want to ask her.”

“You will get your answers meat sack. I HAVE CENTURIES WORTH OF EXPERIENCE GETTING ANSWERS.” You carelessly say. Apparently that was the wrong thing though since Strider equips his katana and presses the blade against your throat, not hard enough to slice through your skin but enough that you can feel the thrill of it, knowing you are literally millimeters away from bleeding out.

“Chucklefuck let’s get one thing fucking settled right now. I don’t give a flying fuck who you used to be, what planet you’re from, or how shit used to work there. There is shit that just doesn’t fly with me and torturing someone is on the top of the list. Harm her and I will fucking end you.” You laugh at his useless threats.

“END ME? You FRAGILE HORNLESS CLAWLESS PINK FLESHY CREATURE, you will END ME?” Your grin widens at him as you proclaim, “Thousands have tried. All have MOTHERFUCKING FAILED. I could use a laugh.”

He snorts at you. “Consider this a fucking embossed invitation to the ball Prince. Time for me to teach your royal carcass how to dance.” You start to get up when the wriggler in your hand speaks, her voice vaguely hollow, “Mister Strider I’m going to apologize in advance for what I’m about to do.” Strider’s head quickly turns back towards her as he asks, “Apologize for what?”

Her tone is regretful as she states, “Killing you.”

Both of you manage to say, “Huh?” just before your entire existence is enveloped in a blinding white light and then quickly fades to blackness.


	4. Mr. Red Sun, Please Don’t Shine Down on Me

You wake up in almost as much agony as you getting burned by the sun all those sweeps ago. You rattle off curse after curse, as you are dragged along the rough rocky ground. A quick glance around you shows that it is the wriggler who is dragging you- and Strider who is still unconscious- and that you were the one that caught the brunt of the explosion that the wriggler induced. This is why you motherfucking hate psychics, especially the low-blood ones. After she drags you out of the wreckage of Strider’s hivestem, she unceremoniously drops both of you, folds her arms across her chest and glares down at the two of you.

As soon as she glares directly at you, you immediately stop cussing up a storm. Her gaze clearly says that she will not hesitate to cull you a second time or a third if it is what’s necessary to make you shut up. Her eyes then snap over to where Strider is looking like he wants to run. He shakes his head no to some unspoken statement as you contemplate how much like Nitram this wriggler is attitude wise.

Her voice is laced with anger, and revulsion as she states, “I’ve had enough of this hoofbeast shit. I highly doubt that either of you are capable of moving given the fact that I just vaporized your sorry corpses. I want to make this abundantly clear, if either of you even think of moving or speaking I won’t hesitate to rip you apart at the molecular level. As a psychic”, the wriggler gives you a particularly scathing look that you don’t return for once, since you want to keep your head in one piece, thank you very much, “maroon-blooded troll I can do that. Also as the Maid of Time I can slow down the flow of time around you so that you feel each and every excruciatingly painful moment in exquisite detail. And if you still have failed to learn your lesson I can rewind time and make you relive getting torn apart down to your most basic components until I am satisfied that you have learned not to fuck with me. I have reached God Tier. I am a God. Let me assure you that the Mirthful Messiahs and whatever deity you human’s worship can’t help you here. And they will not be able to save you from me if you piss me off. Do you understand?”

 She glares down at the both of you, stunned into silence by her rant, before face palming. “You’re allowed to nod” she mutters, glaring at you two from between her fingers. You and Strider nod wide-eyed at the wriggler, like a pair of wobble-headed dolls. Almost as frightening as a Horrorterror, this wriggler is. You like that in a troll.

“Great!” She suddenly smiles, her attitude flipping from cruel to cheery in seconds, and claps her hands together while rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. “I just want to let you know that I’m not usually a mean troll. No, I’m a nice troll; a nice, pleasant, friendly troll! I came to this memory bubble with good intentions. I want to welcome you to the afterlife and answer any questions that you might have. My job if you will is to act as a guide to the deceased on their journey. All I want to do is help you!”

Her maroon eyes suddenly narrow into slits. Her tone changes from cheery back to I-am-going-to-rip-you-limb-from-limb-and-force-you-to-consume-every-last-one-of-them-with-no-grubsauce, “But, we know how that turned out.” She pauses for a moment and reverts back to cheery excitement. “So I’m going to leave now and spend some quality pile time with my Morail to calm down before I give into my urges to kill you again. While I’m away you two need to work out your differences, how, I really don’t care, but do it. Kill each other a couple of times maybe that will help you two settle things. Any who, after I’m sufficiently relaxed to the point where I’m not going to give into temptation and horribly mutilate the both of you I’ll come back and we can try this again, only this time with more talking about the state of what’s left of existence and with less threats of torture!” The wriggler giggles happily, before flying off, leaving a faint trail of fairy dust behind that smelled faintly of apples.

You look longingly after her, “I wonder if she has a Kismesis.” You sigh as you cross your arms underneath your head and stare up at the steadily lightening sky. You ramble to yourself, “Not killing your Kismesis is the MOTHERFUCKING PRIMARY TENENT of a good Kismesisitude, but when you start off with KILLING SOMEONE WHEN YOU KNOW THEY WON’T STAY DEAD… that is just… the most MOTHERFUCKING SUBLIME WAY to initiate a black romance.”

You smile dreamily as you continue, “And then the little rust-blood threatened me with such a delicious description of torture … She THREATENED ME. No troll has threatened me like that since…” you chuckle, remembering Nitram’s quick, witty comebacks to your threats, “since the LAST WINGED FILTHBLOOD that I came across.” Faintly you hear movement from the side but you ignore it, “I never thought that I would discover another that I found so … THRILLING.” You muse, as you plot how to court the rust-blood properly, without her rejecting you right away, “Motherfucking miracles. She has wings, she’s a warm blood, she’s female but I can make an MOTHERFUCKING EXCEPTION, however she still is motherfucking TINY…”

 “What the fuck is wrong with you?” You glance over at Strider. Well fuck, you had forgotten that the motherfucker was there. He is looking at you disgusted about something. “No, I have a gut instinct that the ‘what the fuck isn’t wrong with you’ list is shorter.”

You click dismissively, before sneering at him, “I wouldn’t expect a race of pink flesh bags to be able to fully grasp the MOTHERFUCKING COMPLEXITIES associated with black romance.”

Strider’s next words are the thin stick that breaks the humpbeast’s back: “I don’t see what’s so fucking complex about you getting off thinking about a little girl killing you. You are just fucked in the head.” You stare dumbfounded at him as he smirks at you. You respond by lunging right for his jugular. He manages to dodge you. You growl in frustration and fling a nearby boulder at him. He slices it in half with a single stroke of his blade and crooks a finger at you, beckoning you into striking distance.

A toothy grin spreads across your face. You gleefully cackle as you charge at Strider on all fours. You leap when you’re within a few yards of him and whip out your trusty blood stained club, the spiked one that you had made from the previous Grand Highblood’s bones. He blocks your multihued weapon and locks eyes with you as your weapon grinds against his, no pun intended.  

“Have you ever felt the deepest pitch broil in your bloodpusher at the mere thought of another? Of what bloody miracles they could bestow on you? Have you, Strider?” You hiss at him, a wild grin on your face. You can tell that he hasn’t truly felt pitch for someone but you know that right now you’re coming in close.

“I feel that my delicate constitution cannot stand against the barrage of your whispered sweet nothings” Strider mocks you. If you weren’t so sure that you pitied him, you swear to the Mirthful Messiahs that you’d be wanting this motherfucker as black as pitch can get. You insist “Do you feel it?” “No” he deadpans at you. That’s when you notice the shadows.

You both have faint motherfucking shadows that are steadily getting darker and darker. You step away from Strider and stow your club away and stare over to the horizon where the sun is rising, horrified.

Well, fuck.

Fuck you sideways with a Horrorterror tentacle.

Strider snidely says, “What is your Lolita back already?” You’re frozen in place remembering burning alive, HIS corpse lying in your lap…

“Makara?” He sounds almost concerned. “It’s the sun.” you murmur in terror.

“So the sun is rising. I’m failing to see why this natural phenomenon has you enraptured.” He sounds irritated but you can tell with your chucklevoodoos that Strider’s scared due to you being scared.

Suddenly your entire world feels like it is on fire. “RUN MOTHERFUCKER!” You bellow, using a massive hand to fling Strider over your shoulder, and take off in a full out sprint to your castle.


	5. To Order and Calming State

“Now you really are a PINK FLESHY MEATSACK” You chortle at the sight of Strider’s now dark pink skin in the torchlight of your castle. He glowers as he rubs at and peels away his skin, “How…?”

“Trolls are nocturnal.” You answer to his unspoken question.

“Not that.” Strider snaps back, before pausing, “Makara,” you open a container of burn salve you had in your Sylladex with a faint metallic pop and a pungent whiff of chemicals, as he asks, his voice surprisingly quiet, “is that the reason why you like creeping around in the fucking dark?” You shoot him a look as you wonder whether he really can’t figure it the motherfuck out or if he just wants his motherfucking theories confirmed.

You decide to indulge him, slowly explaining, “It is a MOTHERFUCKING CUSTOMARY FORM OF EXECUTION to strap criminals to posts and let the radiating sphere ROAST THE LITTLE SHITS ALIVE. First the outermost layers of skin burn causing the grey skin to turn to the motherfucker’s blood color. After the color change blisters start to form on the outer layers of skin followed by the middle layer, the majority of SHITBLOODS DIE DURING THIS STAGE. Some of the sludgebloods make it to the next stage when the COOKED LAYERS START TO PEEL AWAY IN STRIPS. But I’ve only seen a few self righteous frigid bloods last until chunks of their flesh start falling away from the bone. The fish last the longest but that’s only because the MOTHERFUCKERS HAVE TO DRY OUT FIRST before they start cooking.” You stare down at Strider solemnly, as you tell him, not even sure why you were mentioning it, “I SURVIVED THE SECOND STAGE BEFORE, you seem to be just starting stage one.” You offer him the tin of burn salve. He gives you a questioning look, “Burn salve?”  You nod and he takes it from you, sighing as he spreads the cream over his skin, which is already looking less red by the second.

He finishes up with the tin and slides it across the floor to you before leaning back against the wall. He gestures around vaguely, “Is this, your home world?” You shrug and reply, “We are in a memory of a battle that I once took part in centuries ago.”

“Where are…?” Your laughter cuts him off before he can even finish. “All of the combatants?” You chuckle darkly. “I CULLED THEM.”Strider looks confused as he asks, “Then why isn’t your doorstep strewn with corpses if you’ve killed them all?” You give him a quick flash of your fangs. You cross your arms behind your head and use them for a pillow.  “I told you already motherfucker. TROLLS GRAVITATE TO PILES.”

The human looks vaguely disgusted before asking, as if he didn’t want an answer, “So you’ve been sleeping on a pile of dead bodies?” You nod, “Yep, it’s about time to change the pile though, the BATCH OF MOTHERFUCKERS I have now are starting to rot.” You run your fingers through your wild mess of hair, dislodging a few chunks of the aforementioned motherfuckers.

He still looks very weirded out as he asks, “Is that… normal for trolls?” You shrug again and reply, “No. Most trolls find it MOTHERFUCKING REPULSIVE. HOARDING DEAD THINGS is more of a Capricorn trait.” You pause for only a moment before adding, with a wink, “But the colorful wriggler toy pile at your hive was MOTHERFUCKING BITCHTITS.”

You stand up and start wandering down the corridor towards your throne room. After a few steps you halt, turn around and wait for Strider to get up and follow you. You watch as he inwardly struggles with the options of staying put or following you, and visibly caves in, and follows you.

He makes a disgusted noise at the scent which you had long since gotten used to “Stop being such a FUCKING WRIGGLER, it’s only a pile of dead bodies.” He cocks an eyebrow and glance over at you. “Dude the fuckers skipped the corpse stage and went straight to paste. We are going to need a shovel and a bucket.” You go silent, and purple, under your paint. Did that motherfucker just up and…?

“Well the motherfuckers aren’t that far gone and it’s NOT LIKE WE DON’T HAVE THE TIME… If you don’t mind then I don’t.” You say as casually as you can, as Strider mutters, “Fuck the bucket” The corpse pile vanishes leaving only a foul smelling residue behind.

You shrug and say, “Or we can DO IT ON THE FLOOR, might want to find a drier spot though.” Strider nods and replies, “Sounds good, you don’t want corpse juice all over your junk.” You click in agreement and the pair of you quickly searches the floor for a dry spot. When you find one you search through your Sylladex and pull out a bucket. You look at Strider and see him digging through his own Sylladex. He pulls out one of those odd wriggler toys from his hivestem. He stares at the bucket in your hand while you stare at the plush toy in his. Why does it feel like you both just jumped to different conclusions about the same thing?

Strider speaks first, “You wanna clean the floor before we do this?” You feel very confused as you ask, “Those aren’t WRIGGLER TOYS?” He replies, visibly uneasy, “They’re called smuppets.” An awkward silence lingers in the air before Strider breaks it, “Didn’t you want to make a new pile?” You blurt out, “Pile? YES. PILE.” You toss the bucket back into your Sylladex as you chastize yourself. Stupid motherfucker, if he wanted to pail you, he would’ve said so!

You busy yourself recreating the pile from his hivestem and after much cajoling you manage to convince the human, to climb up on your pile and lay down with you on it. He makes a small impressed noise as he settles down.

“Motherfucking bitchtits,” You sigh as you wiggle deeper into the multi-hued plush puppet pile. You can feel Strider nodding in agreement through the pile. “So Strider what ushered you into the afterlife?” you ask, curious as to the human’s demise. His reply is to short and to the point, “Got run through with my own sword. How did you kick the bucket?” You glance over at the human with a puzzled look. He rephrases the question, “How did you die?”

You frown in confusion, staring at the ceiling, “Don’t motherfucking know. One moment I’m on my ship, traveling through space at the fishy bitch's command, the next I’m back on Alternia in a castle that hasn’t existed in hundreds of sweeps. All the fuckers I’ve met besides you and troll sis seem to be MEMORIES OF TROLLS THAT I’VE FOUGHT AGAINST IN THE WAR.”

“You’ve spent the past two years fighting?”Strider sounds impressed, disbelieving, and…Concerned? “Fighting, Pailing, Painting, and Sleeping. There is a surprising amount of things you can do with a MOTHERFUCKING INFINITE supply of corpses.” You shrug, as he asks something you thought he’d never ask, “Pailing?”

“Why limit yourself to just your hand if you HAVE A BODY JUST LYING AROUND.” You drily reply. His reply is silence so thick that you could cut with a knife. Well, looks like you won the game of ‘Stump the Being’ this time around.


	6. Welcome to Being Dead

You stare at Strider waiting for him to say something. You could care less if he said something insulting your resourcefulness or something like that but the meatsack remains silent. Did you break his thinkpan by saying you pailed random corpses if the memory of your Kismesis wasn’t present?   

“Are you preparing for a corpse party? I saw the pile of corpses outside of the castle!” The wriggler has returned and is babbling about some weird shit. “I have never attended a human corpse party before and am not quite familiar with the customs and procedures that accompany such an event. On Alternia the bodies of the deceased are usually left to rot in the sun, so we lack any traditions that relate to the handling and burial of our dead.” All of the bubbling troll’s focus is locked onto Strider. You stop leering at the wriggler before turning your attention to him as well, curious about what his species does with their dead.

“Trollicita are you rambling on about a funeral?” How her grin manages to get wider eludes both of you, but she is full on beaming as she agrees with him. “Funerals are held for relatives and the conglomeration of organic waste outside is just the aftermath of chucklefuck here going on a rampage, so I’m not gonna go and hold a party for a bunch of dead aliens that I don’t know.” She looks crestfallen and you’re a little disappointed that humans are so picky.

“So what are you planning on doing with the bodies?” The wriggler asks hopefully.

“Well it was his pile of his bodies,” Strider points a thumb, over to you, “to begin with so it’s up to him.” She glances over at you. You promptly dash her hopes as swiftly as you can. “Let the motherfuckers rot.”

She audibly sighs at your response. “If there isn’t going to be a celebration of one’s passing into the afterlife then I should just go on with the reason why I came here and that is to welcome you to the afterlife!” With a clap of her hands, her wide grin returns. “My name is Aradia and I will be your guide. I’m here to answer any of your questions. So feel free to ask away!” Aradia glances over to Strider expectantly; he looks over to you. Meanwhile you have begun leering at the wriggler, Aradia she said her name is. Her eyes flit over to you and her smile slowly starts to fade. She clasps her hands together imploringly. “So any questions? Any at all?”

You ask cheerily, “Do you HAVE A KISMESIS?” The wriggler’s face whips through every expression from confusion, to shock, to horror, to revulsion all within a few seconds. This mosaic of emotions ends swiftly, with her partially turned away from you, dry heaving, as your grin increases with each of the beautiful retches that she makes.

When she finishes she gives you the most disgusted face she can muster and shouts, “No! No. Not with you. Not with any… just no. You are a foul, revolting, vile, putrid, violent, insane, whimsical creature that only knows how to make other trolls pray for the sweet release of death.” You happily wiggle in your pile as she quickly realizes that she made a mistake. “Oh Gl'bgolyb you think I’m flirting with you.” She fists her hair and starts wandering around the chamber in a circle. “Sollux warned me. He warned me not to come back here. This is what I get for not listening to my Morail…” she trails off into a stream of muttering. You vaguely wonder who her Morail, Sollux, is.

“Fairy Troll I got a query for yah.” Strider interrupts her angry mutterings. She perks up a bit as she says, “A question? Yes, I can answer your question.” Strider gestures round you and asks, “Where are we?” You lean in interested in her reply. She releases the death grip on her hair as she grins widely at Strider. “We are in a memory bubble! And not just any memory bubble, this one is quite special! Unique in fact! I’ve never seen one like this since I took on this role.” You demand, tilting your head to the side, “What makes this bubble so motherfucking special?”

“Well, usually when two memory bubbles come into contact they can join for a short while if the inhabitants of the two bubbles want to interact. If the inhabitants do not want to visit with each other then the bubbles will just pass through one another. Also the inhabitants can choose to leave their memory bubble to spend a prolonged amount of time with another inhabitant in their bubble. In both cases the two bubbles stay intact. But your case is different!” The wriggler cheerily explains to you two.

“Different how?” Strider voices your suspicious thoughts. You knew you were different and by the Messiahs you had figured out that Bro was different but the way the wriggler was treating you was making you uneasy and this is coming from the troll that thousands fear the name of.

She giggles nervously. “First Mr. Strider…” Strider cuts her of, deadpan, “Call me Bro” Her smile widens as she nods, “Okay Bro! Well Bro, your bubble has been completely stationary since you’ve entered the afterlife. That in itself is highly unusual since bubbles aimlessly float through space. Also your bubble had an impenetrable barrier surrounding it. It was if you had cut yourself off from the rest of existence. The Grand Highblood’s bubble on the other hand has been circling the other bubbles in an almost predatory fashion. When the Grand Highblood’s bubble entered your bubble’s region of space your bubble started to move! In fact both for your bubbles sped up on a collision course and ended up colliding!”

You roll your eyes, and growl, “The meat sack and I have figured that MOTHERFUCKING FACT OUT OURSELVES troll sis. So how about you enlighten us on the miracles we are not privy to as of yet.” The wriggler starts chewing on her lower lip nervously. “Two bubbles have never collided with such force before.” You lean in and give her a meaningful look. “AND?” She mumbles her reply so you can barely hear it, “now there is only one bubble” You snap, “SPEAK UP WRIGGLER.”

“Now there is only one bubble.” She repeats louder. She pauses before explaining quickly, “There were two. But now there is only one, and I can’t find the second one. So… you might be stuck with one another for the rest of time.” You and Strider exchange worried glances. “I know the two of you seem apprehensive about this but just look on the bright side! Neither of you will have to spend the rest of eternity alone!”

The rest of Eternity, huh? Motherfucking long time to be stuck with the meatsack.

The wriggler continues gesturing to first Strider than you, “Fate has brought the two of you together and it must be for a reason. Both of you are incredibly emotionally stunted individuals and your previous bubbles reflected it. Bro you just isolate yourself from everyone, and Grand Highblood you solve your issues with culling. Neither action is a healthy coping mechanism so you can take this chance that fate has given you and use this opportunity to improve yourselves!”

You and Strider are dead silent as she sighs, “Or you can look at it this way; the force behind the destruction of both of your universes is actively destroying the rest of existence as we speak. The fate of literally everything rests in the hands of eight teenagers, a few living troll wrigglers, a few dead troll wrigglers, and a collection of dead trolls that already messed up their chance at saving their universe! So if you two really don’t like the idea of staying together it’s ok because it is highly probable that everything will come to a very permanent end at any moment!”

Bro slowly says, “So we could be stuck with each other for another five minutes or for the rest of eternity?” The wriggler nods happily at him, “Yep! Oh, and speaking of saving existence from an almost sure destruction at the hand of an unbeatable foe, I need to leave and get back to saving existence! So I’ll leave you two to take that all in. Bye!”And with that the wriggler left.

You drum your fingers on your knees and look over to Strider. You think you both have the same stunned looks on your faces. “So… motherfucking eternity…” He hollowly replies, “Yeah. Eternity.”


	7. And You Thought You Were the Weird One

You spend a couple of hours at your hive making sure that Nitram’s skull is safely hidden in the plush ‘Smuppet’ pile before heading to Strider’s. As soon as you near the doors you distantly hear Strider moving around inside. You pause outside the door and listen to the creaking of his futon and him hesitantly saying, “Hey Cal.”, to someone.

No one replies as Strider continues, “I know that you’re upset with me and I deserve it. Colliding with another bubble and getting a new neighbor is no excuse for treating you the way that I did. I shouldn’t have ignored you like that bro. I’m sorry.” You hear him remove his hat and sigh. There is a few minutes wait and then something lands with a plop on the futon next to him.

You carefully open the door and stare as Strider talks to a distinctly human-like puppet that is lying on the couch next to him, “Do you forgive me?” There is a pause before he’s scooping it up into a tight hug and letting the puppet’s arms drape around his shoulders. “You’re the best friend a guy could ask for Cal. There’s just so much that I need to talk to you about…”  He starts to say to the puppet before you interrupt.

“MOTHERFUCK…” Strider puts his hug on pause and looks over his shoulder at you, standing in his doorway attempting to sneakily glance between him and the…thing in his arms, and fail miserably at it. Finally Strider breaks the silence turning to face you, and he gestures first towards you before pointing at his puppet, “Little man is right I haven’t introduced you two yet. Cal this is Makara the new neighbor that I mentioned earlier. Makara this is my main man Cal.”

You stare wide eyed at the puppet. It is wearing a blue short sleeved shirt that reads ‘CAL’ on it in big white letters, with what looked like a long-sleeved orange striped shirt with a black bowtie, and matching pants underneath, along with a pair of white gloves, red and white sneakers, and an orange hat just like Strider’s but smaller. Around its neck is a gold chain that a large round medallion dangles off of. Its large blue eyes and toothy smile with a couple of gold painted teeth seem to mock you as you eye it uneasily.

Strider seems to sense your tension and gets up saying, “Hey Makara, give us a minute.”  You put up your hands in surrender and reply, “Sure motherfucker.” Strider smirks at you, “Cool bro.” You keep standing in the doorway as he takes ‘Cal’ into the nutritional block to talk to it. “He’s an alien, I know crazy right?” You hear him say. There’s a pause before he snorts and says, like he’s agreeing with someone, “They do look like candy corn.” You are steadily getting more and more weirded out. “No I don’t know if his horns were made in 1910 with the rest of it.” That puppet is definitely and emissary to the Horrorterrors.

“Ok, seriously bro the troll isn’t that bad. Well not bad if you don’t have a raging aversion to dudes that sleep on piles of dead shit. I shit you not. Behind his throne literally made out of the skulls and bones of his dispatched enemies there was this heaping pile of rotting carcasses that he used to sleep on. Do you promise not to get grossed out?” You blink. He thinks you’re not that bad? Also what’s so wrong about your former pile? “He also used them for recreational purposes.” What does Strider mean by ‘recreational purposes’? …Oh yea, you pailed them didn’t you…

“So you think that necrophilia is just the tip of the fucked up iceberg? We are going to have more than enough time to figure that out bro. Why? I’m going to set it out for you. This little chick troll fluttered in and said that the big troll’s and our bubbles collided and now there’s a good chance that we are all going to be stuck together for the rest of eternity.” Necrophilia? Is that what humans call pailing the dead? Interesting. You hear Strider huff. “Yeah I’m not thrilled but we got to keep striding. Cool bro?” You realize that his conversation must be nearing its end and you brace yourself for the inevitable. “Of course you’re cool with it. Time to get this fiesta kicked into gear.”

Strider and his puppet emerge from the nutritional block and stroll over to you as you eye the puppet warily. Cautiously, not wanting to offend any of the Horrorterrors, you ask, “It motherfucking talks to you?” Strider gives you a look as he tells you, “Look, dude, first of all he’s not an it, his name is Cal and both of us would appreciate it if you called him by his name.”  You carefully reply, “Cal is his title? I can refer to him as such.” Strider looks pleases as he tells you, “Cal says he appreciates your cooperation and as a gesture of goodwill for your first meeting he would like to extend the sacred fist bump of Brohood.” You lift your eyes off of the puppet and glance up at Strider bewildered. “FIST BUMP?”

“Should have known that you wouldn’t know.” He demonstrates what a ‘fist bump’ is with his puppet. You nod, it’s no different than those head butts that Nitram would give you, and gingerly tap your knuckles against the puppet’s fist. “And thus the sacred ritual of the fist bump of Brohood has been completed you are now on your way to becoming bros.”Strider solemnly says. You hesitate before asking, “Strider?” He inclines his head at you, “Yeah?” You gesture from yourself to him and back, “We have not performed this BROHOOD RITUAL.”

Strider shrugs as he replies, “Cal’s a chill dude, he gets along with everyone. It takes me longer to warm up to people, trolls, anything.” He sets the puppet on the futon and walks back over to where you are waiting in the doorway.  You bite your lip briefly before asking, “Strider. Cal talks to you?” Strider raises an eyebrow as he responds, “Of course he does.”

 You mull over what to say next before chancing the question, “Is he an emissary of the HORROR TERRORS? Because I know that they choose not to converse with EVERY MOTHERFUCKER out there.”  Strider looks confused,“What do you mean by emissary of the horror terrors?”

“You can hear him but I can’t so I was just wondering if he’s an EMISSARY OF THE HORROR TERRORS. He does not share ANY OTHER CHARACTERISTICS with the other emissary that I know. Gl'bgolyb is a mass of tentacles the SIZE OF A SMALL MOTHERFUCKING MOON and resides in the oceans of Alternia. However, only the Condescension and heiresses could commune with it.” You faintly hear a voice whispering in your head that Strider is a weak blasphemous creature and that you should cull him where he stand right now. 

Motherfuck, the excrement has now come in contact with the blades of the cooling device.

You distantly hear Strider demand, “What the fuck are you saying?” You inquire, trying to ignore the Horrorterrors **_(Cu_** ** _͠_** ** _l_** ** _̴͞_** ** _l_** ** _͘_** ** _̕_** ** _h_** ** _͏̵̴_** ** _i_** ** _҉_** ** _̕_** ** _m_** ** _͘_** ** _!_** ** _͟͠_** ** _̵_** ** _U_** ** _͏_** ** _s_** ** _͡_** ** _̕_** ** _e_** ** _͞_** ** _̕_** ** _h_** ** _͟͞_** ** _i_** ** _͢͝_** ** _s_** ** _͡_** ** _̧_** ** _̛_** ** _bl_** ** _̕_** ** _oo_** ** _҉_** ** _d_** ** _҉_** ** _͞_** ** _to_** ** _̴_** ** _p_** ** _̷_** ** _a_** ** _̸_** ** _i_** ** _͘_** ** _n_** ** _҉_** ** _t_** ** _̡͏_** ** _҉_** ** _m_** ** _̴̶͞_** ** _i_** ** _̶̴͢_** ** _ra_** ** _̶̶_** ** _c_** ** _͢_** ** _u_** ** _̡̢̛_** ** _l_** ** _̵͢_** ** _o_** ** _͏_** ** _u_** ** _̵_** ** _s_** ** _͟_** ** _p_** ** _́_** ** _a_** ** _͞_** ** _i_** ** _͏̷͟_** ** _n_** ** _̡͏͏_** ** _t_** ** _̡_** ** _i_** ** _͘_** ** _n_** ** _̛͝͠_** ** _g f_** ** _̴́_** ** _o_** ** _͘_** ** _҉_** ** _r_** ** _̵͡_** ** _̕_** ** _̡_** ** _u_** ** _̶_** ** _s_** ** _̵_** ** _!_** ** _̶̀́_** ** _)_** in your head, “Your species is not aware of the HORROR TERRORS?” He shakes his head no so motherfucking slowly.

You hesitantly explain, trying to drown out the voices in your think pan that are getting steadily louder, “The horror terrors are the creatures that live in the vast void that exists between universes. They are the beings that are responsible for the VISIONS OF DEATH, DESTRUCTION AND DESPAIR that afflict all of troll kind. They are the IMPETUS OF ALL VIOLENCE on Alternia. They are the source of the voices that fuel Capricorns to SMITE THOSE THAT HAVE BEEN DECLARED UNWORTHY of a continuing existence. They are the ones that drive us to PAINT MURALS WITH THE MOTHERFUCKING BLOOD OF THE FALLEN as tribute.”

Strider seems skeptical as he demands, “Are you comparing Cal to Cthulhu?”

  ** _(B_** ** _̕L̛҉̛A̸̷S̢PHE̡̢͜M̕ER͢͞҉!̴̀ CU̵̢L̷L҉ ̨̡H̸͡I̶M͜!̵̛ ̧͡  C̵̕͜U͡L̨L҉̸̶ H̢̨IM̴̢!̨͝ ̧͟ C͡U̧͏L̢L̢͢ ̶͠H͘͢͞IM̴̛҉! C̶͓̱̪̫̥̹̳̿͊̊̃̊ͣŨ͕̬̭ͧ̿̍̉͊͂ͅḺ̢̛̦̻̱̽ͣ͂̎͌̀L̖͕̏̋̾͂̎́̚͢ ͓ͬͩ̓ͤ͟͡H̴͙̥̬̰͍̝̗͆͒̋̋͊̔́͠Ì̩͙͉͈͗ͯͤ̊̿́͠M̢̞̩͖̝͔̺̃̓ͣ̉ͭ̐ͧ̏̉͝!̸ͭͦͧͭ͘͏̖̥̞͙͓ ̷̧̤̘̂͆̃̌̂ͩC̞͕̗̙͖͔͆̐̚̕͢ͅṲ͚̯ͭ̓̎L̢͓͓̳͉̘̱͉͙̔ͪ̅͜͟L͉̥̠̙͙͇̮̮̓̎ͧͩͮͯ͝͡ ̨̯̝̲͍̄ͭ͌ͨ̊̒͢H̸̜̳̘̫͔͕̳͉ͬ́̋͛́I̧͈̻͚ͥ̒̏ͯͦͦ͆ͤ̽́͞M͍͖̞̫͖͔͓̥̃̿ͥ̐ͨ̀ͮ͡!̫̼̝̱̗̙̎ͥ̈̐̃ ̗̘̘̤̫̺̗̈́͘͜͝C̡̭͙̣̦̩͂ͦŨ̷̡̳̲͈̣̲̝͌͐̍͌ͭ̀͠L̴͈̘̟̤̖̞̻̺ͥ̉̒̎̿ͧ̿̍͡L̺ͧͩ͊̿́͂̀͝ ͚̙̝͉̪̟ͥ͂͐ͤH̬̦̞͎̖̬͚̞̅̓͘Î̮͈̹̻̱̠̠ͦͩͦ̒̎̆̄́͜M̵̢̞̣ͪ̈̆̈́ͩ͢!͓̺͍͕̹͑̏ͪ͐͛͝ ̛͍͕̰͇͙̞̪͗ͯ͌̀ͣ͊͟C̴͍̱͕̦̼̥̗̺͋̑͊̐ͬ͝U͊̽ͫͩ͆̀̚͏̵͚̙͟Ḷ̷̜̳̜͎͋̀͒̒͊͊̌͑͊̕ͅL̡̻̹̮͔̦͍̙ͫ͐̋ͣ̔͗̚͠ ̰̹̰͍̲͇̈́̉ͥͅH̸͍̜̟ͤ̈͠Ȋ̡̺̤̮̯ͦM̬̞̮̻ͮ̅ͮ̕!̶̡̺ͭͤ̏͛ͦ̄ͣ̕)_**

“You sure you haven’t heard of the MOTHERFUCKING HORROR TERRORS?”

Strider points to the door and gives you a single order, “Out.” You mutter to yourself, promising the Horrorterrors blood, as you wander out of Strider’s hive. You can hear him grumble as you leave, “Aliens.”

 

After appeasing the Horrorterrors with an hour’s worth of blood splattered on the walls, you squirm deep into the mountain of multi-hued felt Smuppets in the center of your throne room, and pull out Nitram’s skull. You can imagine his taunting words about you fleeing the meatsack’s hive. You explain your actions to Nitram’s skull, pretending that even for a moment you have the real Nitram in front of you. Or maybe you have HIM in front of you, listening to you as he did before his execution.

“Then the pink fleshy fuck gives me this look like I JUST IMPALED HIS FUCKING LUSCUS. All I asked this motherfucker was if this Cal was an EMISSARY TO THE HORROR TERRORS since he had a conversation with him in the nutrition block. I could hear EVERY FUCKING WORD even though the meat sack was whispering away like a squeak beast. Oh and the fucker has never heard of the HORROR TERRORS. What fucking species hasn’t heard of the HORROR TERRORS? They are the MOTHERFUCKING HORROR TERRORS. So I tried to explain what they are and during the whole time guess what was screaming in my think pan to PAINT THE WALLS with his nonbelieving blood? You’re right, the MOTHERFUCKING HORROR TERRORS.” You sigh heavily before wearily saying, “No, the human will not take me allowing him to live as a sign of weakness. If he does then I’LL JUST EVISCERATE him.” You pause and give the skull resting in your hands a wry smile. “I don’t find the flesh bag more infuriating that you. He’s not going to replace you as my kismesis. No one is.” You lift the bleached skull of your Kismesis to your lips and place a kiss on its forehead, the way Nitram said he hated but you knew he secretly liked, before pulling it close to you and wrapping your arms around the long horns, your eyelids slowly drifting shut, as you murmured, “Have a good rest Nitram.”

 

Just outside of the bubble one troll turns to face his companion.

“Wow AA, jutht wow.”

“So?” The winged troll grins.

“I lotht the bet fair and thquare. I’ll help you out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horrorterror speech was generated by Zalgo Text Generator (found here: http://www.marlborotech.com/Zalgo.html )
> 
> Also, Sollux will have his lisp because even though his teeth got knocked out I imagine he still lisps a little bit ya know?


	8. I Did Not Need to Know That About Humans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Bubble-Mates get "The Talk" from each other.  
> ...Sorta...

“Makara” Strider growls at you. You stare at him, one of your clawed feet on the rust desert outside his hive and the other precariously hovering over the threshold. You smirk, knowing that your teeth were stained in blood from appeasing the Horrorterrors still. Your foot begins an excruciatingly slow descent to the spotless floor below. “Troll” his voice drops another octave. Your foot halts mere millimeters away from the floor as you sneer back, “Human.”

“I warned you bro.” He shifts his weight onto his back foot. You note the motherfucker’s subtle change in stance. He notices you noticing. You notice him noticing that you noted the subtle change in his meager weight distribution. You laugh as your eyes widen in maniacal glee. Some motherfuckers just want to watch the universe burn. “I KNOW BRO.” You smile broadly, taking extra care to reveal as many of your fangs as possible, promising him a swift death. Strider’s face remains expressionless.

A single claw tip touches the very tip of one of the strange cloth bristles that cover the floor.

Strider unsheathes his sword as he lunges towards the door where you are standing. Correction, were standing. You may be huge but you know how to move as fast as this motherfucker. The blade slices through the air and gets stuck in the doorframe instead of in you. He stops and stares at his blade lodged at least 4 or 5 inches deep in the wood. You snicker behind him, which seems to rouse him from his confusion. You grin and swiftly throw a Smuppet towards his head. He whips around, slicing through your makeshift missile. He watches silently as the Smuppet drops to the ground, stuffing pouring out of a slash in its side.

“Peppermint.” Strider says, coolly as he looks over the top of his shades to lock eyes with you, smirking as you recline in your Smuppet pile. “Take a fucking shower before you contaminate my apartment” he hisses at you. You raise an eyebrow and challenge him, “MAKE ME motherfucker.”

His look screams ‘Challenge Accepted’ as he glares at you.

He tries to get you to enter into his ablution block; now the door frame looks like he tried to shove a giant meowbeast into the room, much to your amusement. So now he’s been trying to bait you into coming out of the Smuppet pile. You can see him lean against the countertop in the nutritional block, waiting for you to go after the Grape Faygo that he imagined up.

Human please.

After a few minutes of silence, you decide to remind him that this is as much your bubble as it is his. You let your horn tips pop out of the pile and push through the mound of plushes to face the liquid grape goodness. You thrust one grey hand clutching a two liter bottle of Candy Apple out of the pile, proudly showing it to Strider before withdrawing back into the confines of your pile.

You watch amused as Strider’s lower lip twitches ever so slightly. Some motherfucker obviously forgot the miracles of a dream bubble. He seems to be chastising himself for being a stupid motherfucker which makes you grin. Suddenly a smirk flashes across his lips as he looks at the multi-hued felt mound where you are hiding.

He creates a small red bag and tears it open. A faint fruity smell fills the air as he carefully pours a handful of colorful little objects into his palm. He places the bag on the counter before tossing a few into his mouth and chewing. Slowly you emerge from the pile, and sneak behind the futon to get a better look. The scent of fruit grows stronger and makes your mouth water. “What the motherfuck are those little colorful miracle bites?” You ask as he pops another one of the bites into his mouth, your eyes peering curiously over the back of the futon at him.

“Skittles.” He replies, rolling the remainder of his handful in his palm before tossing them back. You squirm, licking your lips as he picks the bag back up and offers it to you. You glance from the bag to the sink next to Strider then back at the bag. “Want any?” You give the sink a long look before shaking your head. His next words make you visibly squirm at his phrasing, “Are you sure you don’t want to … taste the rainbow?” Motherfucker knows you like rainbows too much. This is why you hate drinking with aliens: They always end up knowing more than they should.

**_(I_ ** **_̵̀_ ** **_f_ ** **_̧_ ** **_̸_ ** **_̶̶̀_ ** **_h_ ** **_͡_ ** **_e_ ** **_̵̸_ ** **_̷_ ** **_҉̢_ ** **_k_ ** **_̵_ ** **_͘_ ** **_͢_ ** **_no_ ** **_̡̀_ ** **_̧_ ** **_w_ ** **_҉_ ** **_s_ ** **_̛_ ** **_t_ ** **_҉̴_ ** **_o_ ** **_͠_ ** **_o_ ** **_͠͏͠_ ** **_̛_ ** **_m_ ** **_̴_ ** **_u_ ** **_͜_ ** **_̸_ ** **_c_ ** **_̴͞_ ** **_h_ ** **_̡̀_ ** **_̷_ ** **_t_ ** **_͢_ ** **_h_ ** **_͘_ ** **_a_ ** **_̸_ ** **_n_ ** **_̴_ ** **_́_ ** **_c_ ** **_̴_ ** **_u_ ** **_̨_ ** **_͟_ ** **_l_ ** **_͝_ ** **_҉_ ** **_l_ ** **_̛́_ ** **_h_ ** **_̷_ ** **_҉_ ** **_i_ ** **_̴̢́_ ** **_m_ ** **_̕_ ** **_!_ ** **_͘_ ** **_S_ ** **_͘_ ** **_p_ ** **_͜_ ** **_̛_ ** **_la_ ** **_́_ ** **_̨_ ** **_̛_ ** **_t_ ** **_͟͠_ ** **_t_ ** **_͝_ ** **_e_ ** **_͢_ ** **_r_ ** **_̵͟_ ** **_͜_ ** **_̸_ ** **_͜_ ** **_his_ ** **_̵_ ** **_b_ ** **_̶̡͠_ ** **_l_ ** **_̴_ ** **_oo_ ** **_̨_ ** **_d_ ** **_̴_ ** **_͡_ ** **_o_ ** **_́_ ** **_n_ ** **_̧_ ** **_̵̷_ ** **_̴_ ** **_t_ ** **_͏_ ** **_h_ ** **_͞_ ** **_̨_ ** **_e_ ** **_̴_ ** **_̵́_ ** **_w_ ** **_̢_ ** **_a_ ** **_̷_ ** **_l_ ** **_̧_ ** **_l_ ** **_͝_ ** **_s_ ** **_͏̛̀_ ** **_!_ ** **_̴_ ** **_)_ **

You ignore the Horrorterror whispers, vault over the back of the futon, sprint to the counter and snatch the tiny red bag from Strider. Once your hand hits the bag, he whips out the sprayer connected to the sink. A minuscule volume of water manages to hit your back before you manage to scamper up into his ceiling room, pulling the door shut behind you. You spend the next few minutes exploring around the room, eating the ‘Skittles’ as Strider called them. They’re like miniature fruity Faygo bites. It’s barely large enough for you and there are stacks boxes everywhere, labeled with things like ‘Dave’s Anime Gear’, ‘Halloween of ’03’, and other strange things like that as well as all kinds of mechanical parts and silver binding strips that you find tear easily under your claws. You distantly hear the sound of running water which soon stops. You stare at the door to the room as you hear a now familiar tearing noise coming from below.

Strider has opened a new bag, this one brown rather than red. You peek out from the slightly lowered ceiling room door and sniff. Your nose wrinkles at the scent coming from the bites in his hand that aren’t as colorful as the Skittles and shut the door. Strider then tries to lure you out with other sweets- you remember first learning of the flavor ‘sweet’ when you bought Faygo for the first time on Alternia but never fully understood the word till you started conquering planets where they made sweet foods for fun- and he almost manages to do so but it was never enough for you to dare risk entering the nutritional block again.

You are idly making things out of the silver binding strips when you hear Strider singing something below. His voice is deep and rich, though he’s currently pitching it higher than normal for some reason. “I’mma little gummy bear, I’mma, I’mma gummy bear.” He’s making a strange squishy looking, orange, sweet dance across the counter of the island in the nutritional block, not looking up at you. “I’mma, I’mma gummy bear look at me go to and fro.” You watch him play with the sweet, glancing up at you, his poker face perfectly straight. “I’mma little gummy bear, I’mma, I’mma gummy bear look at me go oh no!” He throws the ‘gummy bear’ up into the air and catches it in his mouth. Your focus darts from him to the gold and clear bag that he is now rummaging through. He pulls out what appears to be one of each flavor and lines them all up in a row. As he does that you slowly creep down into the relaxation block, out of reach of his sprayer, to get a better view.

Once he has them all lined up, he glances up towards you and then back down to the candies as he makes them all dance, his hands moving so fast it looks like they are all moving as one. “We’re a little gummy bears, we’re a, we’re a gummy bears.” You slowly move closer and when Strider pauses in his making the candies wriggle, you halt as well. He resumes, “We’re a, we’re a gummy bears …” You move even closer, now that you can smell the fruity scent of these ‘gummy bears’ properly, “look at us go to and fro. We’re a little gummy bears. We’re a, we’re a gummy bears look at us go oh no!” In a flash Strider tosses the gummy bears at you, grabs something out of sight, and throws the soapy contents of a BUCKET at your head.

You can only stand there wordlessly in shock. You can’t even hear the Horrorterrors talking as your eyes flicker from Strider, down to that motherfucking bucket in his grasp, then down to the puddle of soapy water on the black and white square patterned floor. He turns his attention away from you to a lone gummy bear as it drops to the floor. He manages to look up just in time to see you lunge for him, but not soon enough to do a motherfucking thing about it. All two hundred pounds of you pin his meager one-forty against the kitchen floor as you get to work grinding against him. One of your hands holds his wrists above his head; the other is swiftly working its way up under his shirt. He squirms in your grip as you pant at him, “Strider as an alien I doubt that you understand the full MOTHERFUCKING DEPTH OF MEANING of your actions so I’m going to explain it to you.”

You pause to lick your lips, a distant part of you wanting to see what his lips taste like after eating all those sweets, “Pails are used by my species for reproduction. What you did was the most MOTHERFUCKING SALACIOUS INVITATION to engage in reproductive activities besides stripping off all of your clothing, spreading your naked self out in my chamber, and writing ‘Pail Me’ on your chest with your genetic material. Don’t fucking do that again unless you want me to THROW YOU UP ON THE NEAREST SURFACE AND PAIL YOU UNTIL I’M SATISFIED.”

He raises an eyebrow and inquires, “So what are the pails for?” You grind against him and reply, “Reproduction.” He blankly stares at you and rephrases his question. “What are the fucking pails for?” You roll your eyes, rubbing his flat, well muscled stomach with your hand, “COLLECTING GRUB SAUCE.” Strider sounds faintly amused as he repeats, “Grub sauce?” You rattle off the first euphemisms that pop into your head for Grub sauce, “Grub Batter, genetic material, slurry slime, wild wacky wriggler goo…” Strider tries to not look amused, “Isn’t using a bucket bragging, like wearing a knee length kilt? Sure it might look impressive but everyone secretly thinks that you’re just overcompensating for something.”

“If a troll does not SUCCESSFULLY FILL A BUCKET with either of their concupiscent quadrants at their ninth sweep they will be executed by an imperial drone.” You solemnly tell him, “Guess swallowing isn’t big on Alternia” you hear him mutter before he demands, “Alright bucket filler I need details on how the freak show in your pants leads to a new generation of horned fuckers.” You raise an eyebrow, keenly aware that you are lying on top of a human, on the floor of his nutritional block, “You want MOTHERFUCKING DETAILS on troll reproduction?” Strider smiles wryly at you and reminds you, “It’s not like we don’t have the time.” Motherfucker has a bitchtit point there.

You shrug as you make a thoughtful noise in agreement before explaining, “Trolls are hermaphroditic. My species has a BULGE” you grind up against him again, “and a NOOK. During the mating process one troll will insert their bulge into the other troll’s nook. Then once certain areas of the nook and bulge are STIMULATED ENOUGH both troll’s nook and bulges will RELEASE THEIR GENETIC MATERIAL into a waiting pail. The process is referred to as pailing since a PAIL IS INVOLVED. Once a sweep the IMPERIAL DRONES will come around and collect the filled pails. Each troll must have filled at least one pail with either their Matesprit or Kismesis or the DRONES WILL CULL THEM ON THE MOTHERFUCKING SPOT. After all of the pails have been collected the drones then FEED THE GRUB SAUCE to the mother grub. All of the genetic material mixes inside of the mother grub and she uses the RESULTING INCESTUOUS GENETIC SLURRY to fertilize eggs. It is paramount to wisely choose who you pail because grubs WILL ONLY BE  
FORMED FROM THE GENES of those who have a strong emotional connection.” Strider questions, “And trolls pop out of eggs laid by this mother worm thing?”

“The mother grub lays the eggs in the brooding caverns. Grubs hatch out of the eggs. They are a troll’s larval stage, WE ALSO CALL THEM WRIGGLERS. The wrigglers that survive the trials of the brooding caverns are then adopted by a lusus. Grubs that DON’T SURVIVE THE TRIALS DIE, grubs that DON’T GET CHOSEN BY A LUSCUS DIE. The lusus raises the grub through its pupation to a troll and up until it reaches conscription. Trolls that DON’T GET CONSCRIPTED INTO THE FLEET DIE. After conscription at nine sweeps the troll still has a final pupation to undergo until they reach adulthood. The time of the final pupation depends on the caste; shitbloods and pissbloods pupate sooner than frigidbloods or water breathers because of their MOTHERFUCKING SHORT LIFE SPANS.” Strider quietly listens to your rambling before flatly saying, “That’s fucked up.”

You make a sharp clicking noise in irritation, “How does your wretched species INFEST YOUR MOTHERFUCKING PLANET?” Strider smirks and drawls out, “I’ll lay it down for you. Humans are separated into bros and hoes. Bros have dicks, and hoes have pussies. So when a bro and hoe decide to make a brat the bro sticks his dick into the hoe’s puss. After some bump and grind the bro will squirt out a baby batter bomb into the hoe. Then the brat will form inside the hoe and eventually the little shit will get popped out and grow up into an adult.” Your eyes widen at that thought. That’s…Disgusting. “It grows inside?” You cringe trying to imagine it and failing miserably. He doesn’t lose his smirk and just replies, “Yep.”

You look at him, horrified as you whisper, “Your first stage is a motherfucking parasite” You warily glance down at his crotch as you slowly ease off of him and then walk as quickly as you can toward the door backwards before bolting to the safety of your own hive, erecting a barrier of stone between your hives as you enter your own.

You need a feelings jam. Urgently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guessed when it came to Bro's weight, so sue me! :P  
> ...Actually don't...I'm practically broke right now... ;3;


	9. It’s Raining Psionics…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet to anyone listening to me type this chapter, I must've sounded weird cuz I kept saying things out loud trying to determine what certain things Sollux said should have a lisp added on and what ones shouldn't.
> 
> Cuz yeah I imagine that he still has the lisp but at least it's not as bad as it used to be...

“Sol!”

“…Yeth AA?”

“You’re just staring at the memory bubble again. So is today the day that you will venture into the unexplored wonder that lies in wait for you?”

“Lieth in wait,” the yellow blood scoffs dryly, “AA you have no idea.”

The winged troll grins and gives the brooding half-dead troll a playful swat on the shoulder. “Sollux, there’s no need to be so gloomy.”

“AA, evil lurkth in that bubble” he whispers urgently to Aradia. “I might not hear the voiceth of the departed anymore, but I can thtill thenthe doom. All thothe that enter will be doomed, doomed to a fate tho heinouth that not even I can foretell.”

His companion giggles. “Gee Sollux from the way that you’re rambling on you make it seem like the personification of death is in there. It’s just the Grand Highblood’s bubble.”

“GH’th bubble?” An empty socket and a blank eye stare at her incredulously. “The Capricorn in that bubble ith the Grand Highblood? That thing” the scrawny troll flails his arms at the bubble “ith the thing that Horrorterrors are made of!”

“Sollux calm down.”

“I’m not going to calm down AA! I am going to flip all of my shitth! All of them!” he shrieks.

“Shoosh. Shoooosh. Don’t be such a wriggler. What’s the worst that could happen? He could make you all dead instead of just half dead!”

“…AA, I’m thtarting to seriouthly doubt that you have the betht intentions for me. Morailth aren’t thuppothed to get that exthited that their Morail ith going to become full dead.”

“Sollux as your Morail, I only have the best of intentions for you.” The petite troll starts floating over to Sollux. “And as your Morail I need to be there for you both to support…”

“…Why are you getting clother?”

“… and encourage…” She lowers her head.

“AA?” The troll swallows thickly at the sight of the two curved horns pointed in his direction and glances nervously to the bubble lurking behind him.

“…personal growth.” Aradia completes as she speeds up to ramming speed hitting the four horned hacker square in the stomach and sending him reeling into the bubble.

“AAaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

POP.

“Shit gravity!” Sollux squeaks out as he starts plummeting to the desert below. He kicks his psionics into gear and hovers several meters off the rocky terrain. The yellow blood sighs after he catches his breath. “That wath clothe.” The troll tilts his head. “…What's that whithtling thound?”

WHAM.


	10. Too Close! A Little Too Close!

You wake up to the sharp metallic clang of a bucket hitting the jagged stone of your castle. There’s a pause before you hear Strider’s voice ring out, drilling into your sleep fogged brain like a meditorturator’s knives.

“One bucket. Ha ha ha.”

CLANG. You roll over in your pile trying to get back to sleep.

“Two buckets. Ha ha ha.”

CLANG. You growl low in your throat.

“Three buckets. Ha ha ha.”

CLANG. Not even Nitram would dare pull this kind of shit when you were sleeping.

“Four buckets. Ha. ha. ha.”

CLANG. You get out of your pile and stomp towards the entranceway into your personal chambers in a wave of Smuppets.

“Five…”

“MEATSACK.” You bellow, stomping towards the door as Strider continues,

“Five buckets. Ha ha ha.”

“I WILL EVISCERATE YOU AND STRANGLE YOU WITH YOUR OWN ENTRAILS.” You shout as you round the corner that leads out of your castle. Strider is standing there, a bucket in his one hand, and a massive pile at his feet. He gives you a wide mocking grin as he croons, “Makara there is nothing that brings me as much joy as seeing your face as you wake up in the morning.”

You glare at him, venomously. “Die.” Motherfucker cheekily points out, “I’m already dead.” You swear to the Messiahs if he keeps this hoofbeast shit up you’ll listen to the Horrorterror and cull him, “Die again.” You snarl as you glance over at the pile of metal buckets and then back to him amending, viciously, “Painfully.” His look is falsely thoughtful, “I’m taking from your expert opinion that getting run through with your own sword doesn’t rate high enough on the excruciating ways to expire scale?”

You glower at him, unimpressed, “NO.” He sighs, dramatically at you, “Makara I feel like you just aren’t putting as much effort into this relationship as you used to. Your banter is well lacking and I’m starting to get concerned over the possibility that you’re seeing someone else to exchange verbal jabs with.” You blankly stare at him and growl, “Strider.” Strider’s attitude reminds you of that pirate wench that Dualscar always was glubbing about- Mindfang you think her name was- as he replies lazily, “Mhm?”

You grit out, “I’m NOC-TURN-AL. I’m awake at night and SLEEP DURING THE MOTHERFUCKING DAY.” You wait a moment for that tidbit of information to sink in before continuing, gesturing up to the sun which seemed to be the sun he remembered at the moment, since you weren’t burning to a crisp right now, “It’s fucking bright out. So WHAT SHOULD I BE DOING right now?” Screw any thought of Mindfang, the answer Strider gives in reply is 100% Nitram, as he innocently says, “Me?” You practically roar at him, “SLEEPING! The answer is sleeping!”

He looks as though that thought only just occurred to him, “Ah, sleeping.” You snarl, “Yes. Sleeping.” Strider has that smile that Nitram would make, the knowing ‘you-know-you-want-to-pail-me’ one, “Are you sure you don’t wanna get a little horizontal mambo action in before you go off to count baa beasts? A hot and ready slice of Strider is right here ripe for the taking.” Remembering what he had said earlier about human reproduction your answer is swift and absolute; “FUCK NO.”

Innocently, Strider asks, “Is it fuck or no?” Your eye twitches as you loom over, him at your full height, not the motherfucking weak ass height that you had to make yourself so you can fit into his puny hive, as you grind out “Let me make this ABUNDANTLY CLEAR human: The answer is NO. The answer will be now and FOREVER NO. When a moment of doubt strikes you, the answer will STILL BE NO. The answer is MOTHERFUCKING NO. I DON’T WANT your cock, dick, man meat, one eyed wonder weasel or any other name you have given your ovipositor. Find ANOTHER HOST for your repulsive offspring parasite.” And with that you turn away and start to stalk off.

Behind you, you can hear Strider say “Fuck” mere moments before…

WHACK.

You halt, dead in your tracks, as something hard and metallic strikes the back of your head. That motherfucker didn’t just…You take your time, slowly turning around. You stoop down and gingerly pick up the bucket. It has a dent in its side from striking you. “There comes a time when EVEN I MUST, admit that there are situations that are not under MY MOTHERFUCKING CONTROL. But this is not one of these.” Your eyes lock onto his as you carefully enunciate, “The answer is NO.” You throw the bucket back at him. It hits the rusty sand and slowly rolls to a stop at his feet. “Now will you motherfucking OBEY HUMAN?” You demand.

Strider’s fists clench as he forces out, “No one. No fucking one tells me no. Not again. Not anymore. Not even you Grand Highblood.” You scoff and bitterly tell him, “Those are the words NOT EVEN A WRIGGLER would delude themselves with, it’s just not how the universe works” He chuckles dryly and snidely replies, “Of course you wouldn’t understand. A monster like you, you’ve never lost anyone.”

You feel something break inside as you remember your lusus swimming away from you, never to be seen again by you.

You remember the broadcast of Nitram’s execution, of the rage that filled you because he was one of the few motherfuckers who understood what it was like to be forced into a position that you didn’t want all because a bunch of low bloods wanted you to be there.

You remember watching HIM being burned under that fish bitch’s orders, even after offering to take him and his beloved, that olive-blood, far away where she would never be able to touch him.

“I wouldn’t motherfucking understand? I’VE WATCHED EVERYONE I EVER CARED FOR CULLED IN FRONT OF ME.” Your voice starts out quiet and slowly rises up into a roar by the end.

The sheer volume of your voice seems to wake something up in Strider, “Shit we’re about to talk about our feelings aren’t we?” You and the human exchange worried glances with widened eyes and disgusted looks.

“Motherfuck no” You rush at him. You’re a Subjuggulator, the leader of all Subjuggulators in fact; you aren’t allowed to have any form of red-rom at all. Not flushed or pale for anyone, not even an alien who seems to understand you better than you seem to know your-self.

“That’s a no I can fucking live with.” Strider agrees as he picks up the mangled bucket and drop kicks it away, “That was close” he mumbles as he turns to walk away, just as you notice a ball of blue and red energy headed for the ground. “Strider?” You grab him by the shoulders and turn him back around. He sees what you do, and voices what is going through both your heads at the exact moment you see the bucket impact with the sparking ball, knocking it to the ground:

“Oh shit.”


	11. Wriggler's Got Style

 “Looks like a ship just SHIT OUT A BATTERY.”  You casually say watching the familiar sparks of red and blue get knocked out of the air by Strider’s well kicked pail. “A ship just let a load loose in our bubble?” You look at the human confused as he rephrases, “It took a dump, dropped the kids off at the pool, made a deposit at the bank…?” He finally clarifies, “Makara, Aradia said that the universe ended.” You nod in agreement, wondering what he’s getting at. “So if the universe kissed its ass goodbye then there shouldn’t be any fuckers left alive and therefore, no ships in which used energy storage devices can be excreted into our fine spit of hellscape.”

“What shit on your MOTHERFUCKING MUDBALL sparks red and blue?” You ask, waiting for a response from him. You don’t get one and so you continue, “Guess what spark red and blue on ALTERNIA?” Strider looks unimpressed at you, “A MUTANT PISSBLOOD, which are used as BATTERIES on ALTERNIAN SHIPS.” He blinks and looks at you bewildered as you explain, “Alternian space craft are powered by BANKS OF MUTANT PISS BLOOD trolls. Mutations are MOTHERFUCKING COMMON in that blood caste and result in trolls with telekinetic abilities. MUTANT GEMINIS are used as engines to provide power for propulsion, energy for beam weaponry, and also to provide the power necessary for the daily operations of the ship. Utilizing psychic trolls to power our warships is just one of the multiple factors that lead to the EMPIRE CONQUERING THE KNOWN GALAXY. Don’t know how we missed your MOTHERFUCKING PATHETIC SHITSTAIN of a planet.” You add that last bit with a mock thoughtful look at the human.

He glares at you and flatly says, “Fuck you Attila.” You glower at him in return, “MEAT SACK I don’t hate you that way.”His tone turns condescending as he sneers, “My bad, I forgot that you can only get your bulge up for corpses and little girls.” You look at him confused. What does the fact that you pailed those corpses since you had no one else to pail with or that you want that rust-blood with wings as Kismesis have to do with this? “What’s got your man panties in a bunch? It’s not as if your perversions are a national fucking secret. Woodward’s done his digging and has plastered your love of necrophilia all over the front pages of the Post.” You growl at him. You hate it when he does things like that, spewing things that make no sense to you.

Then you spy the bucket, surrounded by a net of blue and red energy hovering behind Strider, close to swooping in and hitting him on his orange hat covered head, “Motherfucker about to get hit with a bucket SAYS WHAT.” You grin at him. His expression screams ‘WTF?!’ as he whips around, mere seconds before he’s forced to so that strange blurred-quick-step that he does, out of the path of a now extraordinarily mangled bucket.

“You wanna play fucker? Let’s play.” Strider says as the bucket accelerates, swinging around to try and hit him again. At ten meters apart he unsheathes his katana and closes the distance, swiftly slicing the pail in half. You watch amused the two halves of the bucket reunite. He continues to lash out again and again at it, two, six, ten, twenty slashes and the bucket reforms every single time. You watch with glee because you know that the human can’t win against a Psionic-enhanced bucket. And then his failure to win hits him. Literally, the bucket hits him right in the forehead.

You burst into laughter as a wriggler floats over to you. Your laughter stops briefly as you take in the double set of horns and the familiar symbol half obscured by a huge golden blood stain on his front. The wriggler stares at you with one wide white eye and a wide blank black eye-socket where an eye was supposed to be. Faintly Strider groans from where he had fallen to the ground and that gets you laughing all over again. You raise your fist to the wriggler and, after some hesitation from him, engage him in the sacred ritual of the bro fist with what you assume is Captor’s descendant. He grins at you revealing that his front row of teeth, the ones in his upper jaw, is missing.

He turns to Strider, who is rubbing his head, and chirps, “Looks like the grubfucker ith awake.” Motherfucker even lisps a bit like Captor. You watch the human glance up at him and end up staring. Captor raises an eyebrow and casually says, “What the fuck, are you thtaring at nubslurper? I might be half-dead but I’m not blind... Anymore” he adds the last bit on as if just remembering that.

“So the” Strider gestures to his face, in the general area of his eyes, “is normal?” Captor’s descendant shoots him a wry look and replies, “Normal? Doeth anything about this look normal?” he gives that dry chuckle that you can remember Captor giving you, “It’th all part of the half-dead packaged deal. I get to float around with AA, commiserate with my dead friendth, lose hearing the voitheth of the doomed, and exchange my duality hoofbeatht shit for black and white. And the betht part: my teeth didn’t grow back tho I don’t have my inthufferable lisp.” The half dead wriggler grins at Strider who looks visibly perturbed by it. You decide to defuse the situation for once by asking, “Wriggler if you’re all thinking that half-life is MOTHERFUCKING BITCH TITS then what’s the deal with BANGING FLESH BAG WITH A BUCKET?” The wriggler shrugs giving you that semi-familiar smile, “Revenge. I could have made his husktop explode but watching BS flee from a glowing bucket is fucking hilarious.”

“BS?” You ask puzzled. You were used to your Captor using abbreviations instead of people’s names but you couldn’t get why this Captor gave the human the abbreviation of ‘BS’.

“Bro Strider” the younger troll replies to you. You look happily at Strider. He looks perturbed as you whisper, starting to draw closer to him, “Your title is Bro. Motherfucking miracles” He remarks, raising an eyebrow, “I am not a fucking religious experience. Well sex with me is” You creep closer to him, as he points at you and deadpans, “Keep your yaoi hands off of me. You go to hug me and I will fucking cut you.” You pout at him, having shrunk back to six feet tall by this time, “Bro” He hisses drawing his katana, “No touchies” while the wriggler facepalms at the two of you.

“All thothe that enter this bubble will be doomed, doomed to a fate so heinouth that I could not have foretold. Thith is hoofbeatht shit.”


	12. Psionic Wriggler Say WHAT?!?

“Insufferable shitstained knucklesponged nubslurping fucks.” You and Strider take a time out from threatening to grievously injure and/or molest each other to try and figure out what the wriggler was losing his shit over. He lifts his arms, palms facing skywards, his gaze drifting off into distance. “Did you see that?” You look around before demanding, “See WHAT MOTHERFUCKER? The sky’s empty.”

The wriggler deadpans, in that wry way that you remember Captor pulling on you a few times, “My last fuck just flew away.” You break into laughter, to the point where you’re bent over at the waist, grabbing your knees as your laughter is interrupted every now and then by a loud honking noise as you inhale. You can’t motherfucking help it.

Last time a motherfucker pulled that line on you, it was Nitram and that was his reply to you telling him, back when he was the leader of the Cavalreapers that he had to stop doing wriggler like things, such as trying to push his lieutenant’s heads into the load gapers because they were ‘being little shits’. You had fallen head over heels in hate that day and it only grew when he rebelled against you and the other high-bloods. Those days were bitchtits.

You distantly hear through your laughter, the half-dead wriggler mumble, apparently horrified that he made you, the Grand motherfucking Highblood, break into enthusiastic laughter, “Shit, I broke GH!” Strider points out, “Dude, last visitor we had vaporized chucklefuck.”

“Oh, that’th why…” There’s a pause before the Mini-Captor continues, “I wath wondering why AA was freaking out over GH wanting her as a potential Kismesis. Dithplaying your prowess ath a caliginouth partner by viciously killing a potential Kithmesith when you are well aware that they won’t stay dead, that’s fucking hot.” Strider sounds curious as he inquires, “So hate fucking is a common troll thing?” The wriggler responds, “It’s one of the concupiscent quadrants.”

“Quadrants?” Now Strider sounds bewildered. The wriggler sighs. “KK would be tho much better at this” he mutters to himself as you wonder who ‘KK’ could be, “But, AA did want me to explain shit.” Strider makes an acknowledging noise before saying, “We could head over to my …,” there’s a pause before the human finishes his sentence, “hive.” He then calls out to you, still laughing, now a little calmer, at the shame globes of steel that this wriggler must have, “GH when you’re done giggling like a uke who just got sempai to notice him, drag your painted ass over to the apartment. The little dude,” the human asks Mini-Captor, “what’s your name?”

“Thollux.” He replies. That sobers you up a bit more. His name, if you’re correct in assuming his sign which means he shares Captor’s hatch-name, is Sollux Captor. Huh…Doesn’t exactly have the same ring that Mituna Captor has but you’ll take what you can get, as the human finishes, “Sollux got sent by the fairy to explain shit.” You straighten up and frown at them puzzled. “WHAT SHIT?” Strider gives you an aggravated look, “Fuck if I know, shit.” You shrug and wander over to them.

Once you reach Strider’s hive, watching the wriggler amused as he floats all the way there using his powers like the show off all Captors seem to be, you plop down in your pile of smuppets and pop open a peach Faygo. The Mini-Captor, Sollux seems understandably scared of you and sits at the edge of the futon, which is the farthest away from you he can get. Strider sighs and seats himself at the other end, closer to you. Sollux does a double take at this before his gaze settling on the human.

“Is he” the wriggler pauses, his face a picture of perfect confusion at the sight of your pile, “your moirail?” You choke on your miracle elixir at the very idea. “That MEATSACK MY MORAIL?” You chuckle bitterly before explaining to him, “MOTHER FUCK NO. Subjuggulators only fill the CALIGINOUS QUADRANT, having a Matesprit or a Morail is seen as a SIGN OF MOTHERFUCKING WEAKNESS.” Strider obviously has no idea what is going on as Sollux asks, “What happens if a Thubjuggulator fillth another quadrant?”

You manage to sum everything up in a single word; “DEATH.” You lean in, resting your forearms on the tops of your legs, reminiscing “The motherfuckers got TWO CHOICES. Option number one, the Subjuggulator EXECUTES HIS QUADRANT MATE IN FULL VIEW of his commanding officer and squadron in a method of his choosing. Option number two, if the fucker proves to be unable to perform such a task he FORFEITS HIS RIGHT TO EXIST. He is then FORCED TO WATCH his quadrant mate culled in the manner of the commanding officer’s choosing and then HE IS EXECUTED. Since the executions do not take place on the battlefield and TIME IS NOT A MOTHERFUCKING CONSIDERING FACTOR for choosing the method of culling, it gives the commander a chance to be…cReAtIvE.” You purposely waver on that last word, noticing Captor wincing slightly.

“Shit. Who the fuck came up with that?” Sollux inquires, obviously torn between fascination and disgust. You darkly reply, “Her Imperial Royal Highness.” As the wriggler pales you add, “She likes her pets…” You inhale sharply before gritting out, “VIOLENT.” He swallows before asking, “What if both are Thubjuggulators?” You smirk and coldly say, “Then you find out which motherfucker has the STRONGEST WILL TO LIVE.”

The wriggler’s jaw is close to touching his thorax while both his eye/eye socket are as wide as they can physically be, as you tell him, “Now there is a story passed down through the ranks, A LEGEND AMONG US SUBJUGGLATORS, and an event that I bore witness to many centuries ago. Two Subjuggulators were DISCOVERED to be Matesprits. Both trolls were lowered into a pit with implicit instructions that only one was allowed to leave alive. All present watched as one of the pair of sentenced trolls wiped off his paint, exposing his true self to his matesprit. A follower of the Mirthful Messiahs never removes their paint in the presence of another. It is a motherfucking primary tenet, A NIGH BLASPHEMOUS ACT.” You grow solemn, remembering what happened next, “That troll, stripped bare for all to see, ripped out his own throat with his claws to spare his mate from culling.” You take a drawn out sip of your miracle elixir before softly continuing, “He died an honorable death.”

Strider raises a hand and says, “The ignorant human would like to ask some questions. What the fuck are ya‘ll talking about?” You and Captor send him identical death glares. He rolls his eyes, shrugging, and says, “Stop freaking the fuck out, I don’t have a point of reference for your alien lingo. Terminology just isn’t fucking translating.” Sollux rubs his temples, in a half-familiar gesture, to try to rid himself of an incoming migraine, and sighs. “I’ve listened to KK rattle on about thith shit enough timeth so I shouldn’t fuck thith shit up that bad” he mutters to himself.

He braces himself before detailing, making the appropriate hand gestures for each one, “All troll romantic relationshipth fit into one of four quadrants. The quadrants are flushed for your Matethprit, pale for your Morail, ashen for your Authpice, and pitch for your Kithmethith. Flushed and pale are conthidered red romance and are linked to pothitive shit. Ashen and pitch are conthidered black romance and are linked to negative shit. Now the flushed and pitch quadrants are concupiscent.”

Strider guesses, “The ones you fill buckets with.” Sollux nods in agreement before adding, “Pale and ashen quadrants are conciliatory.” Strider concludes, “No bucket filling.” The wriggler nods again, as Strider continues, “So your Matesprit is someone that you have positive feelings for that you want to fuck and your Kismesis is someone you want to hate-fuck.” You question, his choice in words “Fuck?”

“Pail” Strider tells you. Pailing equals fucking in the human culture? That means…“FUCKING EQUATES TO PAILING for you motherfuckers?” You slowly say as realization dawns on you, “So a motherfucker would be one that PAILS MOTHERS. If a troll decided to skip the pail and deposit his genetic material in the mother grub THEN HE WOULD BE A MOTHERFUCKER.”

Strider makes the mental images worse by telling you, “Mothers to humans are the ones that give birth to our little shits and raise them.” Both you and Mini-Captor are appalled by that thought, which you voice, “So a MOTHERFUCKER WOULD PAIL other wriggler’s Lusci.” He looks between you two and asks, “What are Lusci?” You are quick to explain, “Semi-sentient creatures that raise grubs…” Strider has this look that says ‘that-explains-that’ while the wriggler snaps out of his disturbed trance to clear his throat and say, “Ath…enlightening, ath thith shit has been its time for me to try to get thome thtuff done. I lost a bet to AA and now I get to thchool-feed you two on all of the important shit that you’ve mithed being antisocial grubfuckerth.”

He glances between you and Strider. “Do either of you have any questionth?” Neither of you two speak. “Any at all?”You finally break the silence, “The rust-blood told us that the universe had ended, but she failed to inform us on the MACHINATIONS OF ITS DESTRUCTION.”Sollux’s answer is one you were kind of expecting, “The Vast Glub.” You smirk satisfied. If the Vast Glub took you out, then more likely than not, the other Captor was probably dead too.

“Motherfucker finally SPACED THAT NOOK.” You motherfucking congratulate the Captor you knew on keeping that stupid bitch away from her planet so that Gl'bgolyb would scream in hunger.“If she could not die by my hands than it is more than acceptable for her to MOTHERFUCKING DIE BY HIS.” The wriggler looks confused before softly saying, “The Vast Glub happened due to FF entering the medium.” You straighten up in your pile, remembering reports of a bubbly fuchsia-blooded seadweller by the name of Feferi who catches cuttlefish as pets, had Dualscar’s descendant as a Morail, and could avoid and/or cull any of the assassins that the fish bitch sent her way, “Feferi Peixes, THE HEIRESS? The one fond of cuttlefish…?”

“How do you know that FF likes cuttlefish?” It’s a bit amusing when Sollux squawks that one like a cluckbeast. You respond, giving the wriggler a meaningful look, “I am the GRAND HIGHBLOOD. It is my duty to the Alternian Empire to be aware of matters of GREAT MOTHERFUCKING IMPORTANCE. Possible successors to the Condescension’s throne are of marked significance. Especially one who has managed to ELUDE THE EMPRESS’ ASSASSINS while keeping the beast fed. She is the first heiress in eons who has exhibited characteristics MOTHERFUCKING NECESSARY to seize the throne. And if her demise is the reason why our race was exterminated then she is the TRUE RULER OF ALTERNIA and not that fish preoccupied with conquering the known universe. If Gl’bgolyb CHOSE HER, then all that was motherfucking holding her from the throne was ON WELL PLACED THRUST with her trident. ”

“FF, the Empreth” the small troll murmurs reverently, a longing look on his face. “How are you familiar with THE HEIRESS AND HER DEMISE?” You question him, eyes narrowing. You register Strider equipping his katana out of the corner of your eye, though it remains sheathed on his lap. “…We’re Matesprits.” Sollux admits, “MATESPRITS?” you repeat is disbelief, “Do you expect me to MOTHERFUCKING BELIEVE THAT?” He has the motherfucking nerve to shout at you, “Yes, becauthe it’s true! I stayed behind and helped her croth into the medium before Alternia was destroyed by Sgrub!” he quiets down slightly, “After she entered the game she brought me back with a kith. I know that I don’t detherve her pity, but she’s flushed for me and I’m flushed for her. I’ll alwayth be flushed for her,” he whispers sadly, “even if I never find her bubble.”

“Satisfied?” You can’t see Strider’s glare behind your shades but you can bet your motherfucking glutes that you can motherfucking feel the heat of it. You shy away from him, suddenly reminded of how you both almost started talking about your feelings to each other. The wriggler sounds and looks like how you feel about your own mixed feelings. Seconds later the human seems to realize something. “Holy unrighteous fuck” He mutters, turning away from you towards the wriggler who now looks bewildered, “You played the game. That’s what fucking ended your universe.” Captor’s bewilderment turns to solemn agreement as he nods.

“What MOTHERFUCKING GAME?” You demand, confused. Mini-Captor turns towards you and plops his face into his hands with a sigh. “AA didn’t explain that shit?” the troll grumbles. “Explaining that shit would fill up a 5,000 page book. FUCK.” The half-dead troll gives an annoyed hiss directed at the popcorn ceiling of Strider’s hive, before snapping, “Listen up nubthlurperth you’re getting the annotated version and you are going to shut up and fucking deal with it.”

For an ‘annotated version’ of events, Sollux’s answer is motherfucking long. There’s so much technical jargon mixed in that you can barely understand him. It seems to last forever. Then he mentions a Capricorn in his group, Gamzee Makara. You like that name, you decide: Gamzee Makara, your descendant, the one who apparently shares your sign, religion, and addiction to Sopor, or rather former addiction. Your bloodpusher almost stops at Sollux’s tale of your descendant killing The Disciple and Darkleer’s descendants at roughly the same time that Dualscar’s descendant blinded him.

You wonder what he must be doing now as Strider sums up the situation; “Jack Noir isn’t the big bad. The Condescension who survived out of sheer force of evil will from the Alternian session, then skipped the Beta Earth session, went to the Alpha Earth session and turned that into her own fucked up version of let’s make humans into trolls paradise, isn’t the big bad. Then who is the fuck is the final boss? And how do we fuck his shit up?” Sollux solemnly says, “Hith name is Lord English.”

Strider’s default is sarcasm when he isn’t sure how to react. “We have to defeat a fucker that drinks tea and eats crumpets?” Sollux shakes his head before bitterly explaining, “Lord English ith the incarnation of evil; he ith rethponthible for stacking the deck, making the game thessionth unwinnable, destroying univertheth, annihilating the horror terrorth, and generally fucking shit up.” Motherfucking hell. Sollux continues, “He can only be stopped via a loophole in the game matrix or a time-induced glitch. One team of ghosts are currently searching for his sister who some believe will be able to defeat him. Another contingency are hunting for a magical artifact, but they don’t know what exactly it is.”You growl, “Is there any way that we can ease this motherfucker’s TRANSITION INTO THE NEXT WORLD?”

Strider looks at you oddly as he declares, “Dude you sound like you want to fucking help him.” You snap back at him, “It’s a MOTHERFUCKING EUPHEMISM for ending the motherfucker.” Sollux makes a time-out gesture with his hands, “The both of you are fucking retarded. Look, if you inthipid fuckth want to assist in thith shit fetht just let AA or I know if you find a little green alien with a skull for a face or a magical object. Unfortunately that’s all any of uth can do for now until the two groupth reach the new session.” The human sounds irritated as he demands, “So our options are to alternate twiddling our thumbs and sticking them up our asses?”

“AA oweth me so fucking much. This shit ith worth more than one lotht bet” the wriggler grumbles, before gesturing around, “Lord English ith fracturing existence as he hunts for hith thithter. As the amount utheable space decreatheth the remaining memory bubbleth float in closer proximity to each other. What thith boilth down to ith that you two gloriouthly wonderful fuckers have an increathed chance in encountering other bubbleth and meeting their inhabitants.”

You perk up at that. This gives you a miraculous opportunity to see your Captor again, to snark with Nitram, to speak with Darkleer, to even see HIM again…

“AA and I have not met every ghost, but we do know that all of the ghosts are either former game playerth or are their alternate iterationth. Also there ith a possibility that you can meet the current game playerth, play nice, the bathtardth left alive have gone through enough shit without having to deal with yourth.” You release a startled clicking buzz as you have an epiphany that Mini-Captor’s words gave you, and you don’t like it. Not one bit.

“I’m NOT THE MOTHERFUCKING ORIGINAL” You shriek at the top of your lungs. Sollux visibly winces before saying, “You’re the post-thcratch iteration of Kurloz Makara, the Prince of Rage.” Strider jerks a thumb at you looking disbelievingly at the wriggler, “There are fucking two of him?” He rolls his eye and sighs, “Yeth, and there are two of you ath well. You’re the pre-thcratch iteration of Dirk Thtrider, the Prince of Heart.” You produce another shrill buzz of alarm at that revelation. Another you and two motherfucking Striders in the same place? As if one of each of you wasn’t bad enough!

“I need to motherfucking SIT DOWN.”Strider deadpans, just as frightened as you are, “Attila, you are sitting down.” You shout at him, “THIS ISN’T MOTHERFUCKING HELPING.” Sollux drawls, “And that’s my cue to leave. Goodbye fuckerth!” he flips the pair of you a double bird and then pops out of the bubble. You and your bubble mate are left in a cloud of disgusted confusion, as you both struggle with trying to imagine another pair of you two running around in the bubbles.

 

Outside of the bubble, Sollux floats over to his radiantly- read that as ‘creepy-as-hell’- grinning, Morail.

"Sollux! How did the school feeding go?" Aradia gushes at him.

Sollux shrugs and wryly replies, "I'm still half-dead AA." She beams even wider at his reply.

"It went better than expected! That's wonderful!" Aradia pauses, lost momentarily in thought. "Sollux?" Sollux sighed, expecting to be questioned on GH’s interest in her, "Yes AA?" Her question catches him off-guard, "Did you talk about the other ghosts that they could meet in the bubbles?"Sollux shrugged, "A smidgen."

She looks anxiously at him, "Did you mention The Signless?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit in the beginning where GH is reminising on Rufioh was based off of this post: http://askacavalreaper.tumblr.com/post/57388450118


	13. Some Things Are Better Left Forgotten

You sit there on your pile long after Sollux left, brooding to yourself. Your hands are folded with your fingers entwined; your elbows rest on your knees forcing you into a hunched position at the edge of the multi-hued pile, your hair a massive cloak over your entire body. Fortunately Strider doesn’t ask anything about what’s on your mind.

**_(Why_ ** **_͞_ ** **_̕_ ** **_͏_ ** **_̴_ ** **_d͜_ ** **_͟_ ** **_i͘_ ** **_͟͡_ ** **_d_ ** **_̴_ ** **_n_ ** **_͞_ ** **_'͘t_ ** **_̴͟͝_ ** **_̡̀_ ** **_y͘ǫ_ ** **_̷̵_ ** **_u_ ** **_̴͝͠_ ** **_́͝_ ** **_c_ ** **_̛_ ** **_͜u̧_ ** **_͟_ ** **_ll_ ** **_͠_ ** **_t_ ** **_̴_ ** **_he_ ** **_͏̀_ ** **_p_ ** **_͏͏_ ** **_i_ ** **_̡_ ** **_s͘s_ ** **_͠_ ** **_b̕_ ** **_͡_ ** **_l_ ** **_͏̡_ ** **_o_ ** **_͡_ ** **_o_ ** **_̸̢͝_ ** **_d_ ** **_́͟_ ** **_̕?̧_ ** **_̶_ ** **_̧YO_ ** **_͝_ ** **_U̕_ ** **_̶_ ** **_͠͞_ ** **_S̨̕HO_ ** **_̴̛͞_ ** **_U_ ** **_̸͠_ ** **_L_ ** **_̵̡_ ** **_D͜_ ** **_͠_ ** **_҉_ ** **_'V͘E_ ** **_̸͟_ ** **_͜_ ** **_҉̷_ ** **_C_ ** **_҉_ ** **_U͜L_ ** **_̷̡̀_ ** **_Ļ_ ** **_̀_ ** **_E_ ** **_͟͠_ ** **_Ḑ_ ** **_̡_ ** **_̷̶_ ** **_͜H͘I_ ** **_͏_ ** **_͜M_ ** **_͟_ ** **_!_ ** **_̢́_ ** **_́_ ** **_C_ ** **_͏_ ** **_͜_ ** **_͟_ ** **_u_ ** **_͟_ ** **_̨͘l_ ** **_͠_ ** **_l͜͜_ ** **_̛_ ** **_t̕h_ ** **_̷_ ** **_e_ ** **_͢_ ** **_͜_ ** **_͟_ ** **_̛_ ** **_p_ ** **_̀_ ** **_i͜s_ ** **_̢̀͠_ ** **_s̨_ ** **_̡͞_ ** **_-͘͘blo_ ** **_҉_ ** **_o̕d_ ** **_͏_ ** **_a_ ** **_̀_ ** **_҉_ ** **_n_ ** **_̸̀_ ** **_d_ ** **_͏_ ** **_t_ ** **_̢_ ** **_h͘_ ** **_̴͝_ ** **_e_ ** **_̀̀_ ** **_̧_ ** **_̀͞_ ** **_b̕la_ ** **_́_ ** **_s_ ** **_̷_ ** **_҉_ ** **_p_ ** **_̸_ ** **_he_ ** **_̴͢_ ** **_͘m̨er_ ** **_͠͏_ ** **_.̨_ ** **_̴͡͡_ ** **_P_ ** **_̷͢͠_ ** **_A_ ** **_̛͏_ ** **_I_ ** **_͡_ ** **_N̕_ ** **_̡_ ** **_͘T_ ** **_҉_ ** **_̨T_ ** **_҉̴_ ** **_Ḩ̕_ ** **_̴_ ** **_E_ ** **_̴_ ** **_͜ ̧M̨_ ** **_҉_ ** **_O_ ** **_͠_ ** **_T_ ** **_̡́_ ** **_H_ ** **_̡_ ** **_Ȩ_ ** **_҉̀_ ** **_R_ ** **_̛̀_ ** **_F_ ** **_́͞_ ** **_U͘_ ** **_͢_ ** **_CK_ ** **_̡_ ** **_IN_ ** **_̛_ ** **_G_ ** **_͏͞_ ** **_WA_ ** **_͘͘L_ ** **_́_ ** **_L_ ** **_̴_ ** **_S_ ** **_́_ ** **_͜W͘_ ** **_̛_ ** **_͜IT_ ** **_̛_ ** **_̕H_ ** **_̶_ ** **_̧_ ** **_̷́_ ** **_TH_ ** **_͝͝_ ** **_E_ ** **_̶̷̀_ ** **_I_ ** **_̶̷_ ** **_R_ ** **_̡̛_ ** **_͢͠͝_ ** **_B_ ** **_҉_ ** **_L_ ** **_̀͝_ ** **_O_ ** **_̷_ ** **_͜Ǫ_ ** **_̛_ ** **_D_ ** **_͟_ ** **_͘_ ** **_̛_ ** **_!_ ** **_̷͝_ ** **_)_ **

**_(k_ ** **_́_ ** **_i_ ** **_̶̡_ ** **_l_ ** **_̛_ ** **_l_ ** **_̸́͠_ ** **_͠͝͞_ ** **_h_ ** **_͏_ ** **_i_ ** **_̷́_ ** **_m_ ** **_͡_ ** **_!_ ** **_̶͟_ ** **_̀_ ** **_K_ ** **_͠͝_ ** **_i_ ** **_͠_ ** **_l_ ** **_̶̵_ ** **_̧l_ ** **_̶_ ** **_̴_ ** **_͜H_ ** **_̢_ ** **_i_ ** **_̶_ ** **_m_ ** **_̶̡̡_ ** **_!̨_ ** **_́͠͏_ ** **_K̨_ ** **_̵_ ** **_҉_ ** **_I_ ** **_̴_ ** **_҉̢_ ** **_L_ ** **_҉_ ** **_͞_ ** **_L_ ** **_͢͏_ ** **_̴͡_ ** **_͜H_ ** **_̵̛_ ** **_IM_ ** **_͞_ ** **_̧͜!_ ** **_͢_ ** **_)_ **

That’s motherfucking it, you finally decide, stirring. You force yourself out of the pile and trudge out of the apartment. The door shuts behind you and you are left alone.

Miles of desert span out before you. You start walking towards your castle trying to find a memory to distract you, something you can use as an excuse to down your sopor and drown the Horrorterrors out. A few seconds, minutes, hours, days later the clean crisp air becomes tinged with salt. You sigh sadly, conjuring a goblet of sopor slime, and then you just start chugging it until your mind grows fuzzy and you can’t hear the Horrorterrors anymore.

Despite the memory that it came from, the ocean was beautiful that night. The two moons were large glowing marbles that were hanging low among the glittering pin points that trail through the sky, painting the world in a palette of pinks and purples which merged into subdued blues. The sand was always coarse; but the memory of how the water feels lapping against your ankles was always well worth the painful grit that stuck to the soles of your bare feet whenever you went wading as a wriggler. You numbly lean against the side of your old hive as a familiar figure comes up the beach, the moonlight glinting off of his pointed shades.

Several yards off to your right a slight figure appears on the shore, slumped in on itself. Your bloodpusher tightens as you watch Strider curiously draw closer to the wriggler which had once been you. Past-you shivers in the chilly evening air; knees drawn in underneath your chin, arms wrapped around both legs tightly, holding them in place for both warm and comfort. You know that your then grey eyes are currently wide and brimming with purple tears as you stare out towards the horizon, silently following your lusus, Goat-Dad, swimming out into the vast expanse.

The flood gates open as he fades away into nothingness on the horizon. You know that past-you has purple tears that are running rivulets clean through your black and white paint. You allow yourself a wry smile. The pattern changed when you became the Grand Highblood yes, but you had rarely been without it even as a wriggler. The past-you’s chest is heaving, each breath coming out of your nose, fast and deep. It doesn’t take long for past-you to collapse into a sobbing tangle of limbs, tears, snot and smeared paint. You watch as Strider attempts to comfort past you, though they are all futile.

You know he can’t even touch past-you. All that he can do is watch as you tear yourself apart.

Your purple blood stains your claws as past-you digs them deep into your skin and scalp, yowling at the pain as pieces of hair get ripped out, trying to feel anything but the  sorrow and the pain of Goat-Dad leaving you. Your frenzy ends as abruptly as it begins. Past-you flails until you are up on hands and knees. You know that the physical damage was superficial compared to wounds you’ve gained through the sweeps. The emotional damage on the other hand, well...

A growl pushes its way out from behind past-you’s clenched fangs. Past-you stands, eyes set on the horizon, before you throw your head back and howl as the water swallows up the setting moons. You close your eyes as past-you’s anguish rips through you again. That sound is brimming with your pain, anger, and sorrow and unbeknownst to past-you, forced into your nearest neighbors’ minds by your chuckle voodoos. There is a strange look on Strider’s face, he looks like he pities past-you in the most platonic of way possible.

Past-you stalks off down the beach, Strider following him to where you are. You hold out your arm and stop him from entering the hive. He looks down at your arm then up at your face as you slowly shake your head. “yOu dO noT waNt tO fOlLoW oN tHe pAtH hE lEaDs.” He starts to ask you why but you cut him off, “TrUsT mE bRo.”

He softly asks, a strangely understanding look on his face, “Where does that path lead to?” You laugh without mirth and take a large swig of sopor before you answer: “ME.” Familiar footfalls, each one followed by a ‘thunk’- past-you walking down the stairs- grab both of your attentions, Strider flash-steps to your other side to allow your younger self to exit your hive. Past-you is armed with a massive lime green juggling club with two white stripes on it. Past-you scans the shoreline, his grip tightening around the handle, wood gleaming from how you would carefully clean and hand polish it after every strife with wild animals. In Past-you’s hands, the wood groans but it does not splinter, that’s why you picked it after all. You needed something that could withstand your extreme strength even as a wriggler.

Past-you turns towards the west, grimly, and starts walking off, almost marching to the beat of your bloodpusher. 

Strider wonders, looking after past-you’s retreating back as you sit down on the sand, “Where is he going?” You point to a lit hive on a ridge line down the beach. You remember what it was like watching their head spilt open, pouring indigo across the floor, killing their toad lusus just for spite. “A bLuEbLoOd lIvEs tHeRe, bUt nOt foR lOnG.” And you can tell that the human understands. He doesn’t want to but he does. He pleads with you, “You can stop this.” You bitterly laugh, “bRo tHis” you fling your arms open wide, gesturing to everything, “haS aLreAdy cOmE tO paSs.”

You pat the sand beside you. Strider instantly sits down next to you, sitting cross-legged while you sprawl over the beach. You sip at your sopor as your past self nears your target. A moment later you both see the lights in the hive go out as you know past-you smashes the blueblood’s lights out, both figuratively and literally.

You turn your gaze towards the sea as you softly say, “tHiS iS tHe thIrD wOrSt meMoRy kIcKiNg aRoUnd iN mY pAn, tHe fInAl tiMe tHat I sAw mY lUsCus. A lItTle oF lIfE’s mIrAcLes dIeD fOr mE tHat dAy. I sPeNt tHe sWeEpS uNtiL mY cOnsCripTioN iNto thE fleEt cUlliNg. WhEn tHe sHip cAmE tO pIck uS mOthErfUckErs uP iNstEad Of fInDinG hUndReds Of trOlLs liNeD uP bY tHe spEctRum, thEy fOund tWo.” you chuckles bitterly, “THe oThEr mOtHerfUckEr hAd aLmOst cUlLed aS maNy aS mE. hE bEcaMe ThE E%ecUtiOnEr aNd I, tHe GrAnD hIgHblOod.” You gaze out into the night sky, remembering the massive indigo blooded Troll that had been waiting in your sector’s conscription field, and how he grew to be a wonderful potential Kismesis and favored secret keeper, “tElL mE HoRusS. DiD yOu fInd yOur grEen giRl? ArE yOu oUt aMonG tHe sTaRs wItH hEr?” you murmur wistfully.

Strider awkwardly says, “You could think of another memory.” You shake your head and tell him, “tHerE aRe wOrsE oNeS tHaN tHis.” He raises an eyebrow at you. You look back up to the sky before adding, “BeForUs. Or shOuLd I sAy tHe rEasOn wHy tHe nAmE bEfOrus iS fAmiliaR. A fOrmEr prIsOner oF mInE tOld mE tHe tAle. hE sAiD tHat BeForUs wAs rEaL, tHat iT liVed iN hIs mEmOries.” You can see in your mind, with vivid clarity, HIS earnest, bruised, blood streaked, face, begging for you, by wriggling name, to remember Beforus and how there you were just a gentle, silly, mime that dressed up in a skeleton costume, loved to laugh and talk to his Matesprit and Morail about everything in the universe and yet nothing at all.

“This story doesn’t end well.” Strider’s words are practically a breath. “it dOes nOt eNd weLl fOr aNyOne.” You darkly reply, as you move to take another gulp of sopor. You blink when nothing enters your mouth before shaking your head as you peer into your, now empty, cup. “Oh maGicAl cUp wHy mUst yOu bE bErEft oF sOpor?” You tap the side of the goblet and a broad grin spreads across your face as the cup refills its self. “mIrAcLes.” You take a drawn out swig before offering the cup out to the human. He takes a bottle of the tequila elixir out of his Sylladex and pours the contents into the vessel.

After he’s finished spiking your sopor, he grabs the cup from you and takes a huge gulp before his better judgment could kick in. “The snozzberries taste like snozzberries” he whispers and promptly passes out. You look down at him amused.

“mOtHeRfUcKiNg MeAtSaCk CaN’t HoLd HiS sOpOr…”


	14. Somewhere Over the Rainbow, Way Up High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GH cleans up his act...

Not too long after he passed out, Strider woke up. Almost immediately he launched himself at you shrieking something about you being a devil-dog that he needs to put down. You gleefully catch his sword with your club as you two start strifing. The sopor and tequila makes his moves slow and easy to counter. As you two fought, you decimated your hive to the ground. Never before had you seen a motherfucker get so in tune with the Mirthful Messiahs after drinking sopor. Maybe it was the addition of the Human’s wicked elixir, the tequila that did it.

You frowned, as you parried a jump-attack from the human, remembering how annoyed Strider had gotten when his hive had been decimated by the rust-blood. If only you had some way to tie up a motherfucker…Suddenly you remember the silver binding strips you found in the ceiling room of Strider’s hive. You knock the human onto his back and while he struggles to get up onto his feet again, like an overturned grub, you imagine you have a roll of the stuff in your hands. You pin Strider down, knock him out, and bundle him up in the stuff. You aren’t quite sure how much it took but you do know that anytime the roll ran low one second, it would suddenly be brand new the next.

Once Strider was securely bundled up and his sword stowed in your Sylladex, you tossed him over one shoulder, jogged back to his hive and used more of the strips to secure him to the ceiling. Satisfied that he wasn’t going to wreck anything, you leave the relaxation block and head towards his ablution block instead. You need to get rid of the lingering scent of dead bodies, sweat, blood, and genetic material, you tell yourself.

** (L ** ** ̸͡ ** ** i ** ** ̵ ** ** e ** ** ͏̸̢ ** ** s ** ** ̛ ** **! ** ** ̷͟ ** ** ͜ ** ** Y ** ** ͝ ** ** o ** ** ̨ ** ** ̛ ** ** ̧ ** ** u ** ** ̵͟ ** ** ̨ ** ** w ** ** ̛ ** ** ͘ ** ** i ** ** ͜ ** ** sh ** ** ͠ ** ** ͜ ** ** to ** ** ͡͞ ** ** ̸ ** ** ̨ ** ** g ** ** ̶ ** ** e ** ** ̵͞ ** ** t ** ** ̛ ** ** ͘͘ ** ** r ** ** ͘ ** ** ́ ** ** i ** ** ͝ ** ** d ** ** ̶̷ ** ** o ** ** ͘ ** ** f  ** ** ͘ ** ** ͢ ** ** t ** ** ͠ ** ** h ** ** ̶ ** ** e ** ** ̶̡͢ ** ** ̴̀ ** ** s ** ** ̕ ** ** ͢ ** ** c ** ** ̴̀ ** ** e ** ** ̷ ** ** ̕ ** ** n ** ** ̨ ** ** ̢ ** ** t ** ** ̀ ** ** o ** ** ͞ ** ** ͜ ** ** f  ** ** ́͢͠ ** ** t ** ** ̨ ** ** ̸ ** ** h ** ** ̶ ** ** e ** ** ̷̴́ ** ** ̀ ** ** n ** ** ̶ ** ** i ** ** ̕ ** ** ̸͢ ** ** g ** ** ͞ ** ** ҉̡ ** ** h ** ** ̕ ** ** ̶ ** ** ̕ ** ** t ** ** ̛͡͝ ** ** ҉ ** ** o ** ** ͝ ** ** ̨ ** ** f ** ** ̶ ** ** ̧ ** ** ̶́ ** ** y ** ** ̶ ** ** ou ** ** ̛ ** ** r  ** ** ҉ ** ** f ** ** ̨ ** ** i ** ** ̕ ** ** r ** ** ̕ ** ** ̸͡ ** ** s ** ** ̸͟͡ ** ** t ** ** ͢ ** ** s ** ** ̨ ** ** ̀ ** ** u ** ** ͢ ** ** ͘ ** ** ̡ ** ** c ** ** ́ ** ** c ** ** ̨ ** ** ͢ ** ** e ** ** ͏͠ ** ** s ** ** ̕ ** ** ͞ ** ** s ** ** ̨ ** ** ͏ ** ** ͘ ** ** f ** ** ̧ ** ** ̷ ** ** u ** ** ͠ ** ** l ** ** ̡͏ ** ** ҉ ** ** ̀ ** ** c ** ** ̴̀ ** ** u ** ** ̨ ** ** ̢ ** ** l ** ** ̷̡͡ ** ** l ** ** ͞ ** ** ̨ ** ** i ** ** ̕ ** ** ̀ ** ** n ** ** ͞ ** ** g ** ** ͘ ** ** ͢ ** ** ҉ ** **! ** ** ͡ ** ** )  **

Your attention is suddenly caught by Strider’s shout of “I shot the sheriff but I didn’t shoot the deputy,” You ran back into the relaxation block to see that Strider was still in his cocoon of binding strips, but now was trapped in the folded up futon. You stared as his thrashing lessened, before rolling your eyes, “…Motherfucker’s still fucked in the think pan.” Strider’s snores were your only reply.

You return to the ablution block and manage to figure out how to turn on the fixed rain part of his ablution trap and, once the water is at the correct temperature, you duck inside the stall, being careful not to scrape your horns on the ceiling, and for a few minutes you just stand under the spray and watch as the water that pools at your feet turns a murky grey-brown. You inhale slowly and then release your breath before imagining cleansing liquids to use to scrub your hair. You lose yourself to the monotony of scrubbing and combing your hair clean of bits of dead tissue, blood, dirt, sopor, and your greasepaints, which takes a while.

Body is cleaned next, starting from your rock-roughened feet, moving up past your calves, thighs, groin, hips, stomach, back, chest, up to your neck. You hesitate for almost a minute before carefully using a cloth and a cleansing bar in the stall to clean your greasepaint off of your face. You almost instantly feel very vulnerable. To your knowledge only 5 people knew what your face looked like without your paint.

The Condesce, the stupid motherfucking fish bitch, knew since you became the Grand Highblood and Captor knew because he had ended up as the Condesce’s ship so no privacy there. Nitram and Darkleer both had been your Kismesis at different times, it was their right to find things out about you to try and catch you off-guard. HE knew because before the execution, HE had wiped off your face and, while you were stunned that HE had done it so casually, using HIS ridiculously high pants as a cleaning cloth, HE re-painted it for you, telling you stories about Beforus as HE did so.   

You shiver. The water was starting to run colder than even you could stand now. You finish rinsing off, get out of the stall, and quickly rub yourself down with a towel, your back to the reflecting glass in the room. Once you finish you pull a pair of moobeast skin pants out of your Sylladex, the pair that are dyed a dark purple with blood, and pull them on.  You slowly inhale and turn to face the mirror and try to observe yourself as an outsider would.

Criss-crossing your chest, stomach and arms are scars of various ages from various weapons; swords, spears, guns, spiked brass knuckles, teeth, claws and many other things besides. You know there are more on your back and legs but right now you’re concentrating on your face. The scars there look almost soft, like a bunch of feathers had been brushed across your cheeks rather than the sun literally burning you alive and replacing the scars that had been there with these new ones. You exhale slowly before looking away from your reflection to reach into your Sylladex and pull out two cans of greasepaint, the off-white and the black ones.

Carefully you reapply your paints; first, the black is spread over your face from hairline to jaw as well as from sideburn to sideburn. Then, the white is laid around your eyes and mouth in short, sharp, rough strokes. Soon rather than the bare scarred face of a troll with haunted looking white eyes, you were looking at the familiar painted skull-like visage of the Grand Highblood. You compose yourself by practicing a snarl in the mirror, and then you leave the ablution block to check on Strider.


	15. I See You Shiver With

You pad over to where Strider is sandwiched in his futon. As soon as your feet are within his line of vision he starts to weakly wriggle around, making small angry noises at you. You extend a clawed hand, get a grip on the layers of tape and cloth between his shoulder blades and give him a firm tug out of the futon. You prop him up against the closed furniture piece and take a look at him. He doesn’t have his shades to hide his irritated expression and there are a large number of miraculous looking mottled blue, purple, and yellow bruises as well as numerous red scratches all over his skin. You note his eyes trailing down from your face to your pants as his expression goes from angry to surprise to impressed to severely turned on, and by the end of his eye-pailing, his mouth hangs open as a bit of drool escapes his lips.

“Motherfucker’s drooling. Might have clubbed the fucker too hard on the pan,” You say as you gingerly prod at his flimsy thin-boned skull with a large hand. You click worryingly and he jerks, moving away from your hand, startled, before blurting out, “You’re fine… No! I’m fine!” You shrug, place one hand on his shoulder, and shred a path down the middle of his bonds with your claw. Your hand then drops the few inches from his shoulder to the corner of the tattered binding strip sheet and with a flick of your wrist he spins out of his cocoon and into a graceful dip over your other arm. “I am unaccustomed to such gentlemanly behavior,” he declares an obnoxious falsetto, “Hold me close for I feel as if I am to on the verge of being overcome by the vapors.” You straighten your arm and watch impassively as he hits the floor with a loud groan.

“Aliens,” you mutter, wandering into his nutritional block. You get to work making food for yourselves; at couple of grub-steaks, with a side of some fried vegetables. You easily fall into the routine of slicing, boiling, searing, frying, and pouring as you hum the words to some slam poetry, distantly aware that Strider was sitting on the other side of the counter staring at you in awe. Roughly ten minutes or so later, you set a plate down in front of Strider with a piece of grub-steak on it, take a seat at the end of the counter, and begin to happily munch away at your food.

Strider blinks at the food and takes a few bites of food, his expression saying that he thought it was bitchtits, before asking, “Makara, what the fuck happened last night?” You put down your 2 liter of Cola Faygo, and raise an eyebrow, “You don’t MOTHERFUCKING REMEMBER meat sack?” He shakes his head at you.

You burst out laughing; a few honks slipping out as you inhale, and gleefully tell him, “Bro, one sip and you were motherfucking gone into the REALMS OF THE MIRTHFUL MESSIAHS. You leapt up in this haze screaming that I was some MOTHERFUCKING DEMON DOG and tried to hack at me with your sword. We laid to waste my hive and the castle in the ENSUING STRIFE. Your hive would have been MOTHERFUCKING NEXT but I was able to bundle you up before the demolition. You still wouldn’t SETTLE YOUR MOTHERFUCKING NUBS so I attached you to the ceiling. That sliver shit is motherfucking glorious, the ONE REDEEMING FEATURE of your pathetic fragile species, that and those COLORFUL MIRACLE BITES.” You pause to take a slurp of your miracle elixir, before adding “By the way I STILL HAVE your sword in my Sylladex.”

Strider looks stunned, “You… fucking disarmed me?” You look at him wondering if you hit him too hard when you were Strifing, “You’re sword is in MY MOTHERFUCKING SYLLADEX. My Sylladex contains YOUR MOTHERFUCKING SWORD. How else do you want me to STATE IT motherfucker? The sharp shiny thing YOU TRIED TO CULL ME WITH is in my possession.” He raises a hand in surrender, “Dude I fucking get it. This shit just hasn’t happened before.” You both lapse into a silence broken only by the scrape of your eating utensils on your plates as you eat.

Eventually Strider breaks the silence again, “So, you can cook?” You stop eating and wrinkle your nose at the memory of the food that the fleet would serve you if you dared to eat in the communal dining block, “The food at the fleet commissary tastes like the motherfucking shit I would SCRAPE OFF MY FEET.” Strider gives you an understanding nod which make you start regaling your baking skills and how you can bake a Faygo pie so bitchtits that that the high priests of the Mirthful Messiahs offer it as a tribute during Carnival. Strider obviously doesn’t know what you’re talking about but he still politely nods and mumbles comments at mostly appropriate times. Once you both finish eating, Strider collects your plate and cleans both his plate and yours in his sink. Then your conversation on food is moved to the relaxation block.

You eye the tiny orange square that Strider had conjured up and handed you, “What is it?” He smiles and replies, “It’s a Starburst.” You briefly examine it before popping it into your mouth. You aren’t impressed by the waxy taste of it. Strider looks like he’s repressing laughter as he says, “You have to take the paper off first.” You carefully watch him strip his own piece bare before he munches away at it.

You roll the Starburst in your mouth, using your tongue to unwrap it, pull the wrapper out of your mouth and then chew on the fruity square. It tastes similar to an Orange Faygo but sweeter. You chirp happily before taking another from the meatsack, pink this time. With every single one Strider gives you, you carefully unwrap it with your tongue and then eat the candy within. Once he’s run out of flavors to give you, you get up, stretch, and tell Strider good morning before heading back to your own hive.

You end up napping in the middle of talking to Nitram’s skull in your pile about how you had never seen anyone eat your food so eagerly since you made food for your entourage on Lunarus roughly 50 sweeps ago…


	16. ANTICI…

You raise an eyebrow. Every sign you had come across since waking up, some quite literally were handmade signs written in paint that was a bright shade of orange that you had learned to connect to the meatsack, pointed to Strider being in your personal rooms.

“MEAT SACK, you forgot to retrieve your…” you halt midway through the door frame, Strider’s katana clattering to the stone floor from your suddenly slack grip, finishing weakly, “sword…” The human is sprawled out on your purple polka-dotted covered bed wearing nothing but his pointy shades and fingerless gloves.

Distantly you hear the metal door-handle groan as your gaze travels over his exposed collarbones, down his torso which you assume has been sculpted by years of training and your bloodpusher pounds at the sight of his skin laced with scars from countless Strifes. This motherfucker looks like can take anything you throw at him and still come out looking practically pristine. Further down is a golden trail of hair that leads roughly from that odd round indention on his stomach to his long lean legs, spread wide for you. The, now mangled-beyond-repair, door handle snaps off when you get the full view of Strider’s cock standing almost directly upright, a pearlescent bead of pre-come glistening at its apex.

Two of his dexterous fingers, slick with an abundance of a purple fluid that looks so much like your genetic material that you are almost unsheathing in your pants right now, languidly stretch his waste chute opening.

As you watch Strider slips his fingers out and squirts a generous helping of the fluid onto his hand out of a tube. He then writes a short two word phrase on his practically hairless chest. The crushed hunk of metal heavily drops to the floor, as he meticulously licks the excess from his fingers. You visibly twitch, watching him enraptured with each and every slow stroke of his tongue over his fingers.

Once his fingers are cleaned to his liking he declares, “Makara, Grand Highblood, consider this my salacious invitation.” He pauses to let his intentions sink in as if the scrawled words of ‘pail me’ on his motherfucking chest weren’t enough, “So are you going to throw me up against a wall and fuck me until you’re satisfied?” You carefully breathe in and out, slowly and deeply, both of your hands clenching and unclenching in synch with every breath. You can’t tear your eyes away from him. A distant part of you, the one that talks in Darkleer’s scandalized voice, complains at how “l00d” this is, as he lazily traces circles around his chute opening with a single finger.

You finally break eye contact, whip around towards the door and sink your claws into the wood slab with a low growl. Shards of wood splinter under the increasing pressure as you release a low rumbling, trying hard to avoid memories that pailing of any kind makes you think of. Eventually with a mighty heave, the door is ripped off of its hinges as you find one memory that you know Strider will regret you ever bringing up. You toss the broken remains to the side and pay the human no heed as you leave without saying a single word to him.

You run through the halls of your castle, cursing Strider under your breath. He motherfucking deserves this. Damned motherfucker, once he said that his species grew on the INSIDE of a motherfucker you hadn’t wanted to pail him at all. Now he was tempting you far too much. Serves him right motherfucking right, if he gets ripped limb from limb by the drones. You end up outside where a swarm of drones are waiting, waiting for you.

Everything blurs into you swinging your club at drone after drone. Occasionally you throw your club and end up slashing the drones apart with your bare hands until you can retrieve it. Slowly their blood is making your bulge slip more and more out of its sheath.

After sending a particularly bothersome drone through the wall of your castle, you pause in mid swing, catching the familiar scent of your bubble mate. You growl to yourself, glaring at Strider before you grab the nearest drone, and rip off its head. You throw him  an angry snarl, followed by the drone’s head, which flew past him to smash against the wall of your castle.

You shout at him, very sexually confused and frustrated, “This is YOUR MOTHERFUCKING FAULT Strider. Every inkling that I had of PAILING YOU SHRIVELED UP when I heard of your species REPUGNANT REPRODUCTION HABITS. But then, then you had to go and MOTHERFUCKING DO THAT YOU MOTHERFUCKING TEASE.” A number of drones chase after the head you threw, following the chemical make-up of the drone blood to Strider, as you grimly inform him, “Drones cull BY RIPPING OFF A TROLL’S LIMBS. ENJOY YOUR DEATH STRIDER. YOU’VE EARNED IT.”

You have to admit from the glimpses that you catch of him that he's a bitchtits fighter. He uses the size difference between him and the drones to his advantage, his blade slicing through them like a knife through moo-beast fat.

When all the drones have been killed you wander over to where Strider is sprawled panting over the top of a mountain of corpses. His hat is missing, his shades cracked, shirtless due to a drone ripping it off of him in its death throes- nearly got you culled when you saw it happen cuz though you don’t want to bear his parasitic offspring, damn he’s a mightyfine invertebrother-, his jeans are almost artfully torn and he is liberally coated in the black drone fluids. You flop down onto the pile a foot or so below to him, and try to ignore his presence, as well as the fact that your bulge wanted to say hello to his again. “Makara...?” You resist the urge to growl as you roll your head to face him at a slimebeast’s pace.

You are seriously motherfucking considering giving into the Horrorterrors’ wishes of culling the human and using his blood as paint right now.

“What blight are YOU GOING TO PLAGUE ME with now human?” You grind out.

“…Never mind…” You growl this time, rolling over, and the pile quakes beneath you two as you reach up to pin Strider down. You lower your head and stop with your teeth, less than an inch away from his exposed throat, and growl, “Ask your MOTHERFUCKING QUESTION.”

**_(C_ ** **_҉_ ** **_́͞_ ** **_U_ ** **_҉_ ** **_̧LL_ ** **_̷̶͢_ ** **_͜_ ** **_҉_ ** **_H_ ** **_̸_ ** **_I̧_ ** **_̶_ ** **_M_ ** **_̴_ ** **_̨_ ** **_͢_ ** **_!_ ** **_͞D_ ** **_̢̡_ ** **_O_ ** **_͡_ ** **_͘_ ** **_̷_ ** **_I_ ** **_҉_ ** **_̕_ ** **_͞_ ** **_T̨̧_ ** **_̵_ ** **_!_ ** **_͝_ ** **_͜ CŲL̨_ ** **_́͟_ ** **_Ļ_ ** **_̡_ ** **_͜H_ ** **_̶_ ** **_IM_ ** **_͝_ ** **_͏̷_ ** **_NO̧_ ** **_̸͞_ ** **_W!_ ** **_̶͝_ ** **_̕_ ** **_̴_ ** **_W_ ** **_̸̛́_ ** **_H_ ** **_̷_ ** **_I_ ** **_̴_ ** **_L_ ** **_͏_ ** **_E_ ** **_͟_ ** **_̴̛H_ ** **_͞_ ** **_E_ ** **_̶̴́_ ** **_'_ ** **_̸_ ** **_S_ ** **_̴_ ** **_̧_ ** **_̢̛_ ** **_D_ ** **_̵_ ** **_E_ ** **_͝_ ** **_F_ ** **_͞_ ** **_E_ ** **_̛_ ** **_N_ ** **_̀_ ** **_S_ ** **_͟_ ** **_E͜_ ** **_̵_ ** **_L_ ** **_̸͝_ ** **_E_ ** **_҉́_ ** **_̕S̕_ ** **_̶͏_ ** **_S_ ** **_̛͞_ ** **_!_ ** **_̡́͞_ ** **_͠_ ** **_W_ ** **_̶_ ** **_H͜I_ ** **_͡͡_ ** **_̧L_ ** **_͟͡_ ** **_E_ ** **_̷̴_ ** **_̕H_ ** **_͏_ ** **_E_ ** **_̴̡͢_ ** **_'_ ** **_̶̀́_ ** **_S_ ** **_̡_ ** **_̷_ ** **_҉_ ** **_W_ ** **_̷͠_ ** **_E_ ** **_͏̴_ ** **_A_ ** **_̡_ ** **_K!_ ** **_)_ **

“…I was just going to ask what the fuck is going on. I know or at least have a fucking idea what the fuck is occurring right this fucking moment, but I just wanted to know what the fuck was going on say right before our disturbing cuddle session on the carcass pile started.”  Strider’s words come out in a rush.

Motherfucker uses the word ‘fuck’ an awful lot. Motherfucking aliens, and their weird as motherfuck speech patterns.

“Human this ISN’T A FEELINGS JAM and I am not your MOTHERFUCKING MOIRAIL.” You chuckle darkly, and drily tell him, “This is a memory from my ninth sweep when the DRONES CAME TO COLLECT and I didn’t have a filled pail to offer up. I FOUGHT OFF THE SWARM until I was compelled by the blood.” You take both of the human’s slender wrists in one hand and drag your free hand over his chest, leaving familiar patterns, smiles and frowns with clown noses, in the drying blood.

You pause, taking a moment to consider the taste of a mix of your paint, the drone’s blood, and a bit of your own blood, in your mouth, before continuing, “Drones’ blood is laced with an aphrodisiac to encourage trolls who are CAPABLE OF DISMEMBERING ONE to find a partner and FILL A PAIL so that their superior genes will be passed along to subsequent generations.”

Strider looks so confused, you just want to face palm really badly, as he asks, “So why this memory? Why now?” You raise an eyebrow and flatly state, “You FIGURE IT OUT motherfucker,” before you lick a broad stripe up from Strider’s stomach, up to his chest. Your eyes flash up to his as you pull off and drag your tongue over your bottom lip.

Strider’s eyes visibly widen, “Oh.” You climb up the pile to lie beside him, and lean in close, your breath, and possibly your words, making Strider shiver slightly as you whisper, “I want to make you pant. I want to make you scream my name as you writhe underneath me. I want to sink my bulge deep into you and fill you with my seed until you reek of me. Until every troll that you encounter knows that I’ve had you. That I’ve made you mine.”

Strider’s words are sharp and make you wince, “Then why don’t you? I gave you the most blatant fucking invitation I can short of throwing you down and stripping your clothes off.”

You growl in reply, releasing his hands as you actively avoid his gaze, “It’s not that motherfucking simple,” Strider demands, “Why the fuck not? We’re both sentient, consenting beings who’ve reached the age of sexual maturity for our corresponding species. I don’t fucking see the problem.” You try not to flinch as you mumble, “Your species is PARASITIC. Your young grow inside.”

There is a moment’s pause.

“You think that if you have sex with me that I’ll somehow infect you and my offspring will burst out of your fucking chest.” Strider laughs at you “You thought that I was trying to seduce you so that you would be the host for my alien baby?” You were horrified by that mental image and whisper, “It erupts out of the chest cavity?”

Strider sighs, rubs his face with one hand and grumbles, “I need to put more effort into explaining shit to you. Alright look, I can’t,” he makes a weird gesture in the air with his pointer and middle fingers of both hands as he says the next word, “infect you because a) human reproduction doesn’t work that way and b) you aren’t a human female. You just don’t have the necessary parts.”

You are bewildered by this. Human females are different biologically than the males? Is that what he means by you not having ‘the necessary parts’?

“I’m explaining the birds and the bees to an alien so I can get laid. This is fucking bizarre”, Strider mutters before continuing, “This is what actually happens. There are males and females. Females have specialized cells called eggs that they make in their ovaries, once a month an egg travels from an ovary to the uterus. Now a male can fertilize the egg while it is in the uterus by inserting his penis into the woman’s vagina and releasing his semen which contain sperm. An egg will start to develop into an embryo once it has fused with a sperm cell.”

Well…That’s certainly a big surprise…That also means…

You cautiously ask, trying to make sure you understood what Strider just told you, “Two males of your species cannot reproduce?”He elaborates, “They can’t produce offspring however they can still have sex. There’s this organ called a prostate which is located near the rectum and can be pleasurable when stimulated.”

The rectum…That’s what you’ve heard other Trolls- mostly ones that work in medical- call the opening to a motherfucking waste chute. You slowly start to grin.

Strider looks at you uneasily and orders you, “Stop looking at me like a creeper and just ask the fucking question.” You can’t stop the faint hopeful note in your voice. “They use the waste chute?” Sex that is done in that particular hole was usually reserved for the very kinky, the very reckless/stupid, and for black-rom pairs.

“The number of ways two men can have sex is only limited by their imagination. But yes one of the more common ways is to use the waste chute.” Your smile is now a full-blown grin, “So it’s common for one male to WILLINGLY ALLOW another male to insert himself into his waste chute?”

“If they are both attracted other males and consent to engage in sexual congress then yes.” You chuckle happily, your face actually starting to hurt from grinning so widely. Strider raises and eyebrow and inquires, “What?” You gleefully tell him, “Using the waste chute is considered KINKY.” He is silent for a minute or so before slyly smiling at you, “How kinky?” You purr at him, “It’s the most MOTHERFUCKING DEPRAVED act one troll can do to another.”

“Really?” He emphasizes the ‘e’ when he says the word. You waggle your eyebrows at him as you ask, “Wanna engage in a depraved act MEAT SACK?” He gives you one of his rare wide grins, the ones that display all of his teeth and make his face light up like a hive on Twelfth Perigee, and replies, “I’d thought you’d never fucking ask.”

He leans away from you as he rummages through the pile beneath you and yanks out a bucket with, ironically enough, a spade on it. “Should I bring a pail? Or do you already have one?”

You flat out tell him, leaning in close, so you can purr into his ear, “Strider, YOU ARE THE PAIL.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I like to believe that it's fairly commonplace for a Black-Rom pair to do anal because what better way of saying "You're my bitch!" than pinning your partner down and fucking a hole you aren't supposed to fuck normally...
> 
> Next up is the porn part that gives this story it's explicit status! > :3


	17. …PATION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA They finally do the horizonntal mambo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually really hard...I can think up smut but I can't write it too well... :/
> 
> Reminder to check out Bettername's "If You Give a Subjuggulator a Shot of Tequila", which is what this is based off of, thank you very much!

You waste no time as you start to lap at his human bulge through his pants, slipping your tongue through the holes in the cloth to trace lines and spirals into his skin. You are abruptly interrupted by Strider hauling on your horns, pulling your face away from his crotch. You raise an eyebrow and inform him, “If you’re going to do that motherfucker go lower to the base and dig in with the nubs you call nails.”

“Makara I’m trying to get your attention not get you off.” You glance perplexed between Strider’s face and his stiff bulge longingly, “We are not fucking on a pile of corpses.” You jolt up the pile, slamming your hands on either side of his face, thrusting your face into his. Motherfucker doesn’t even flinch.  

“Don’t you FUCKING BULGE BLOCK ME NOW Strider,” You growl irritated as you spit at him, “There isn’t a line that separates BLOOD LUST AND SEXUAL LUST for Capricorns.” He gives you a look and tells you, “Chuckle fuck I’m horny as hell and ready to go but I’m not doing it on a conglomeration of corpses.” You stare at him, the drone’s blood making your mind all foggy. Why is pailing here a problem?

He rolls his eyes before flatly saying, “I don’t want to get impaled while we’re fucking.” You blink and thoughtfully rub a thumb over one of the intact spines of a drone. Strider has a point, pun fully intended. This sort of shit could tear open the inside of your nook in an instant. You nod remembering one time you pailed Nitram on his mixed pile of those strange plushes he used as ‘hosts’ for his beasts and lances of various sizes…

“I got a LANCE SHOVED UP MY NOOK once while pailing. That wasn’t a MOTHERFUCKING ENJOYABLE EXPERIENCE.” You shrug, haul him up by his pants and throw him over your shoulder, before eagerly making your way into your castle. “I am going to kill you,” Strider swears as you stroll into your chambers, paying no heed to the splintered remains of the door you annihilated earlier. You pull him off your shoulder and toss him onto your concupiscent platform.

“AFTER we pail,” you grin at the motherfucker. Strider just smirks, quick-steps behind you, and slices off the shredded remains of your righteous vestments. He then sends you sprawling across the platform with a kick to your lower back. You hear him say, “I can handle that.” You twist and flip over onto your back, leaning back on your arms and flash him a huge shit-eating grin.

You watch as Strider takes off his cracked shades to get a better look at your bulge in all of its bitchtits glory. “Motherfucker,” you hear him whisper reverently and you feel a wave of warmth jolt down your spine straight to your bulge. He used the one of the sacred words as easily as any proper Subjuggulator could and by the Messiah’s if you weren’t already turned on by the drone’s blood…

When he manages to drag his eyes away from your bulge and up to your eyes, you smile broadly at him and drawl, “I see you shiver with ANTICI…PATION.”

Strider’s jaw drops, as he asks, wonder in his voice, “You’ve seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show?” You snort, and inform him, “I’ve BURNED THROUGH several copies before I got it loaded onto my husktop.”He tells you, a pitiful look on his face, “I love that movie…”

“Come Rocky, show your creator some love,” you purr at him, winking invitingly. Strider grunts eagerly in reply and swiftly strips down to his bare skin. You rumble approvingly as he crawls across the platform to your bulge. He tentatively skims his fingers along your length. Your bulge then curls around the human’s wrist and winds through his fingers. You sigh happily as he slowly massages it in time with its contractions. His temperature is a number of degrees higher than your own, far hotter than any Troll, higher than even a rust-blood. His lips caress the base of your bulge and he slowly mouths a trail up the ridged underside to gently suck on the tip, still entwined in his fingers.

You groan as he laps up the pre-come leaking out of the tip, and you can see him collecting the fluid in his mouth. After a minute or two, he brings three of his free fingers to his mouth, and slicks them up, a couple of trails of watery purple streaking down his chin. Once he’s done getting his fingers coated, he reaches behind himself, messing with the opening to his waste chute.

A growl rips out of you, dragging Strider’s attention away from preparing himself to you.

You crook a finger demandingly at him, “I WANT to see.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you and slithers up onto your torso. After a few moments of careful maneuvering, he ends up with his legs straddling your torso, his delightfully soft glutes in your face. He props himself up on one arm on your hip as he continues to alternate lapping at and sucking on your bulge. His other arm trails across his curved back to use his dexterous fingers to stretch his waste chute into submission.

You run your hands over as much of his lightly tanned skin as you can reach, which is a surprisingly large amount, before settling in on kneading his bitchtits glutes. You spread his ass cheeks apart with your thumbs as he presses a slicked up finger into himself. He moans around your bulge as your tongue teases the puckered skin around his finger. After you lick a stripe between his external shame-globes and his waste chute, Strider pulls his finger out of your way and turns all of his focus to your bulge in his mouth.

You take that as an invitation, as you alternate between licking across, around, and lightly dipping into his hole as he rubs the part of your length that can’t fit in his mouth with his clever sword calloused hand. You teasingly push further into him, past the ring of muscle, which clenches delightfully around your tongue. He turns into a needy mess as you tongue-fuck him, your bulge squirming in his mouth in time with your tongue.

Strider untangles his tongue from your bulge, and pants as he tilts his head back, looking at you from over his shoulder. He looks delectable with a mix of saliva and your pre-come oozing out of his mouth, his face seriously flushed. Shame that here in these motherfucking bubbles everyone who was dead had white eyes so you couldn’t see how aroused he was.

( _Also made a motherfucker wonder what color Strider’s eyes were before he died_ )

“Makara, I need you. Now.” He begs you. You snarl possessively in response and nip one of his glutes before you flip him onto his back. You situate yourself on your knees between his legs and hook your arms underneath his knees, and support his lower half with both of your hands gingerly placed around his waist. Your bulge languidly slides down the cleft of his ass to his waste chute. The tip rubs over his hole before slowly pressing in.

The dry squeezing pressure around your bulge- so much different than the slicker pressure of a nook- is burning hot, far hotter than Nitram ever was, and makes you click happily. Never again will you desire anything higher than a rust-blood on your bulge. You make sure to go slow, not sure of how much of your generous length he can take at once. Strider moans loudly as his hips hit flush against yours. When you pause, getting ready to let your bulge work its miracles, he squirms against you and whines.

You gently sooth him, stroking his thighs, “WAIT.”  

“For what?” he snaps at you, his face and chest, flushed crimson. You chuckle in response as your bulge begins to twist and thrash inside of him. Strider hisses at you through clenched teeth as his back arches, pushing him further into your grip.

Your bulge coils inside of him, twisting and thrusting, slowly, but steadily, turning Strider into a panting, moaning mess in your arms. You purr happily before picking up the pace and he starts clawing your sheets. He shivers as a scale on your bulge brushes up against a small bump inside of him. You smirk and redirect your bulge, purposefully rubbing against the spot with reckless abandon.

He digs his nails deep into your arms as his muscles tense. In seconds he’s crying out, splattering his chest and stomach with his strange white come. You growl as he clenches around you so sweetly. You thrust into him only a few more times before following him, flooding his insides with your genetic material. It leaks out of his hole and streams down his back and chest, cutting through the white, leaving little purple trails behind.

Strider looks up at you, almost reverently as you lean forward, gently lowering his hips down on the platform without withdrawing your bulge from his waste-chute. You carefully lap up the mess on his chest before giving him a very pleased and mischievous smirk.  “What you didn’t think I was finished with just once did you?”

His expression tells you all you need to know before starting round two…


	18. The Ghost in the Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A WILD PSIIONIC APPEARS!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait!
> 
> I got distracted by Rooster Teeth/Red vs Blue but I at least wanted to finish this story since it's technically just a rewrite of Bettername's from a different POV...
> 
> ....Still probably won't be finished for a while yet though... :/

You wake up in your recuprecoon to a distinct lack of Strider and a feeling as though someone was running their fingers up your spine. You climb out of your recuprecoon, mop up the sopor clinging to you, and head outside. You see Strider standing in his sopor slime soaked clothes staring up at the sky. You look up as well on your way to his side and almost trip into him in surprise.

The Battleship Condense looms in the sky overhead. Motherfucking miracles.

You finally reach Stider's side and he stares up at you with a stunned gaze. You stare back down at him with a manic grin.

“It’s another MOTHERFUCKING BUBBLE,” Your attention darts from him, to the ship, and back.

He slowly says, “So it is.”

“If Solbro’s right and the nook is CURRENTLY ALIVE AND TERRORIZING A DIFFERENT MOTHERFUCKING UNIVERSE,” your voice quiets, “then this can only mean one motherfucking thing my pink fleshy bro,” you pauses for dramatic effect before purring, “MiRaCleS.”

Strider sounds unimpressed, “Miracles.”

“Yes. Miracles are happening to us AT THIS VERY MOMENT.” You quietly praise the Mithful Messiahs  “HE would be the only other one with the MOST TIES TO THE BATTLESHIP CONDESCENSION.” You are filled with an excitement you haven't felt since...since you met Strider actually. 

The human raises his hands at you in a rough 'T' shape and slowly says, “Back the insane train up and let me put on my Captain Obvious suit. That bubble belongs to a troll.” You nod. “A troll that you want to see.” You nod again, a smile slowly spreading on your face. “And that troll tolerates you.”

“TOLERATES is a strong word. More like he hasn’t TRIED TO KILL ME YET." You pause for a moment "No, he has attempted to cull me before. But that was MOTHERFUCKING EONS AGO.” Strider sounds moments away from facepalming, “You want to go visit a troll that has previously tried to kill you?”

“That whole I’M GOING TO TORTURE AND CULL YOU IN THE MOST EXCRUCIATING WAYS KNOWN TO TROLL KIND was just a phase. He’s over it by now. Besides WE’RE COMRADES. And if all of the centuries worth of talking was just a LONG INTRICATE DANCE TO LULL ME INTO A FALSE SENSE OF SECURITY so that he could strike when I am vulnerable, I’m already MOTHERFUCKING DEAD. Where else am I going to go? PRAXIS FOUR?” you snort. 

He rolls his eyes and sarcastically tells you, “Have fun with that. I’m going to go scrape the green shit off and take a scalding hot shower until I forget that I know you.” You look at him dissappointed. You wanted to introduce your Pale-mate to your...was his your Flush-mate? You suddenly realize Strider is squinting at you suspiciously. “What?” he demands as you fidget in front of him like a wriggler that was caught stealing by his lusus.

“I’M GOING TO need your help.”

He glares at you as you rush to explain, “You have SMALL NIMBLE fingers. I have big MOTHERFUCKERS.” You wiggle your giant claws, perfect for rending flesh from bone in battle but terrible for delicate jobs like removing a Helmsman from the control core of a Battleship, to prove your point.

He’s still glaring at you.

“I need your fingers Bro. I NEED THEM.” He looks unamused but nods at you grudgingly, “How HIGH IS YOUR TOLERANCE for weird shit?”

“I still talk to you.” You pause and weigh his comment for a minute before insisting, “No, I mean WEIRD SHIT.”

“I fuck puppets, video tape it, and upload it to a website that I own and operate for both business and pleasure.” He answers bluntly with the most miraculous deadpan you have ever seen.

“BITCH TITS. You go take your absolution, I’m going to find CERTAIN … ITEMS, and then we can go.” You sprint off to your castle without waiting to see if he replied at all.

You swiftly pack a tracker, a pair of heated metal-cutters, and a number of blades and pliers to slice and pull the poor motherfuckering Psiionic out of his tentacled prison. You concentrate and change your outfit to a purple spacesuit. Your hive melts away to the Abel Space Station which makes you raise an eyebrow as you float around searching for the entrance to Mituna's bubble.

You swiftly find it and float back to your original place and wait until you see a figure in a bright orange suit making their way towards you. Your suit’s intercom crackles and hisses with static before he locates your channel.

“Right now we’re in my memory of the ABEL SPACE STATION. If the Messiah’s bless us this isn’t my memory of when it GETS VAPORIZED so it will still be here when we return.” You swiftly explain as you float towards the departure ports, “I’ve located one of the TROOP DEPARTURE PORTS so we can gain entry into the lower levels. Once we cross the threshold we are out of our bubble and DEEP IN THE MOTHERFUCKING SHIT. Last crew and troop manifesto that I have access to lists the total count at 11,380.” Strider looks faintly impressed at you, as you grin, “Ready TO MAKE SOME CORPSES Strider?”

“Going on suicide missions just so my psychotic bubble mate can meet a dead troll who wants to kill him is my middle fucking name.” He snarks at you as he follows you though the open hatch.

Once you're through the decompression chamber you start fiddling with your readings panel, imbedded in the forearm of your suit.

“The ship’s running on auxiliary power. Life support is functional and at full capacity. Life form count is ZERO MOTHERFUCKERS. ” You relay to him.

“So the monster lying in wait to rub us out in this B movie is dead just like us.”

“Strider you’re only truly alive when another motherfucker is ACTIVELY PLOTTING TO CULL YOU.”

“I’ll keep those pearls of wisdom in mind when the acid spitting alien is chowing down on your entrails.”  he replies making you honk in amusement as you pluck the tracker out of your sylladex. “Now you’re throwing Hellraiser into the mix? Not satisfied with the haunted house in space motif?”

“Meat sack SHUT YOUR WIND HOLE and watch as I blow your primitive think pan.” You sneer as you twist the top and bottom halves of the cube in different directions and release it as it starts to glow. He slow claps as the radiating ball of green florescent light hovers a few feet off the floor.

“So what now?”

“We FOLLOW the tracker.”

“Sounds simple enough.”

An hour into following the geriatric glowing green orb through miles of identical corridors lined with locked doors you start to yearn for something to break the boredom of walking to a teleporter, teleporting to the next level, getting off the teleporter, and walking to surprise! Yet another teleporter.

The monotony interrupted by you rattling off a very long string of annoyed clicks and growls. The teleporter on this floor isn’t working, which is mildly ironic to you because it’s in the maintenance bay. You kick the stupid machine like it owes you a large number of Caegars. Judging from Strider's expression it seems that hitting electric devices until they work is yet another universal constant. 

The hunk of malfunctioning refuse deposits you and the human at the base of a massive door shaped like a gear. Elaborate runes are engraved in concentric circles that extend to the outer edges. You swallow remembering welding that door shut yourself. The tracker orb pulses three times before returning to you.

You tuck it away as Striider says dumbfounded,  “What being in existence would compel a race of intergalactic conquerors to go as far as welding a door shut?”

You dryly chuckle. “A DESTROYER OF WORLDS.” You take out the heated metal cutters and tosses one to the human. He looks from you to the device and back before shrugging and helping you slice open the door. A rush of stale air fills the room once the seal is broken.

“Jesus Christ.” You distantly hear Strider say. The floor and ceiling of the room are as you remember it, coated in a writhing mass of pink cables. You follow the trail to their source and inhale sharply, the palest of pity spiking through you. The ropes of cables are entwined around an emaciated troll, Mituna, forming a column in the center of the room. The cables extending from the ceiling hold his outstretched arms over his head. The cables on the floor anchor the lower half of his body leaving only part of his cadaverous torso exposed. His head is bowed, chin resting between his collarbones. Your jaw tightens at the sight of vivid yellow streaks that dribble down his cheeks from his goggles and splatter his front from where it poured out of his mouth. His death was neither as quick nor painless as your own. “I am become death, the destroyer of worlds,” you hear Strider whisper under his breath.

“He is the HELMSMAN.” You absently respond as Mituna raises his head to survey the two of you. You can tell that Strider impresses him as much as the unfortunate splattered remains of jettisoned Trolls or destroyed enemy ships one could find plastered on the hull of the battleship. He outright cackles at the sight of you. This could be a good thing, or a very bad one. You pray to the Mirthful Two that it's the former...

“Thup nookthtain. I didn’t think that it was pothible GH but you’ve gotten even more hideouth thince the latht time that I had the dithpleathure of theeing your fathe.” You smile because at  least his motherfucking lisp is still as terrible as ever.

“Captor you’re a motherfucking RAY OF SUNSHINE.”

“Awww, I light up the therieth of mithtaketh you try to path off ath your life?”

“No, your glowing personality BURNS THE FLESH right off of my bones.”

“It warmth the conkleth of my nonexithtent bloodpusher to know that I bring you tho much joy. My halluthinationth don’t have thuch a witty repertoire tho that mutht mean that thomething managed to cull you. Who do I make the Thank You meththage out to?”

“The Vast Glub. Gl'bgolyb was destroyed along with Alternia in a hail of asteroids.”

“I fried out my think pan trying to get the thhip back to Alternia to thtop the Vatht Glub. Figureth it would take the end of all troll kind to kill you. What of the Empreth?”

“She LIVED ON to terrorize another motherfucking universe.”

“That’th my Meenah. Not even the end of the thpecieth can keep her down.”

You pull a disgusted face and growl, “YOUR Meenah?”

He gives you a bloody grin, “What can I thay? Eternity, itth a long fucking time, I have to get my bulgeth wet thomehow.”

“I thought that you would at least have BETTER FUCKING TASTE than that nook.”

He shrugs. “I don’t get out much, I take what bitcheth I can get. I doubt that you came here to fill your thpank bank with taleth of my riveting thexual ethcapadeth, tho what ith your purpothe GH? Why mutht you dithturb the well detherved thleep of the dead?”

“I’m here to extricate YOUR RANCID CARCASS.”

He has the shame globes to laugh at you, “Extricate? That'th a fucking impreththive word for a thubjugglator. I would give you a gold thtar but I’m a little tied up at the moment. You theem much more lucid than the latht time that we thpoke. Dying mutht have healed the lethions in your think pan cauthed by your thopor addiction tho thtop thpouting crazy thhit. I cannot leave thith thhip.”

“Mituna, you’re MOTHERFUCKING DEAD. You don’t HAVE TO SUFFER for the Empire any longer.”

“You jutht can’t wait to get your meat hookth on my thexy bod. Of courthe you would only be interethted in me once I became a corpthe.” Mituna mocks you before he motherfucking begs of you, “Why Kurloth? Why don’t you let me rot in peathe?”

“You shouldn’t have to motherfucking ask bro.”

“You feel rethponthible for my inthtillation.” You remain silent, knowing that he can see the pain on your face as HIS voice whispers in your head that you and Mituna, in another time, another place, were Morails and motherfucking close ones at that.

Finally he whspers “Will it hurt?”

“It will be the second most excruciating pain that you have ever felt.”

He dryly says, “It will hurt leth than theeing your grotethque fathe? Bring it on corpthefucker.”


End file.
